A Wife's Concern
by ChelsieSouloftheAbbey
Summary: Chelsie period AU, written as my #unofficialDAs8 challenge project. Nine chapters, each following a one-word prompt, serving as a complete sequel to "A Husband's Love."
1. Photographs

**A/N: This is my entry for the #unofficialdas8 that Chelsie fan proposed over on tumblr. I thought it would be fitting to do a sequel of sorts to my #unofficialdas7 story, which was "A Husband's Love." If you've not read that, it's maybe a good idea to at least check out the last chapter (if not the entire thing!), as this story picks up immediately following that one.**

 **Thanks for reading! Please drop me a note of review at the end to let me know what you think. Each week's addition will be part of this story, and there will be nine chapters in total.**

 **xx,**

 **CSotA**

* * *

The Tuesday after Christmas finds Elsie and Charles exiting their cottage carefully, mindful of the small patches of ice remaining on the ground. They're about to set off for Mr. Andrews's photography studio, where Elsie hopes to learn all there is to know about her new camera.

Yesterday, Elsie hadn't been sure they'd be able to keep the appointment, given that the miraculous Christmas snowfall they'd received had been followed on Boxing Day by a much _larger_ storm, one that had dropped several more inches at their door. But the roads had since been cleared, the walkways shoveled, and Charles had insisted that Elsie keep her appointment.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay home?" she asked him over breakfast. "I'm sure I can manage."

"And miss a chance to see that look you get when you're learning about something new?" he replied. "I rather think not."

She smiled at him, and they finished their tea.

"Carefully, now," he murmurs, stepping out onto the lane. Elsie slips her hand into its comfortable spot, holding onto her husband's arm as they begin the trek.

"Don't drop that camera box, Mr. Carson," she cautions with a smile.

"That would cost more than my life's worth," he mumbles, but he's teasing and she hears it in his voice.

"Your sister-in-law _would_ kill you," she agrees, chuckling.

It's brisk and bright out with the sun bouncing off the snow, and the pair is quiet as they make their way into town. These lengthy silences are such a part of who they are, of _how_ they are when they're together, that they scarcely notice them anymore. They value the comfortable manner of their days together, content to just _be_ with one another without the need for unnecessary discourse.

Charles knows Elsie has a great deal on her mind today, though, and her thoughts burden him, too, because he knows that the majority of them lie with Becky.

They'd brought Becky to the train station late yesterday afternoon, meeting up with one of the staff from her home who'd accompany her back. Her trip had been extended due to the weather, and while Elsie had been nervous about the change in plans, Becky seemed to take it in stride. She and Charles spent their extra time together making biscuits and a delicious soup from the leftover Christmas goose, and Elsie attempted (unsuccessfully) to teach Becky the basics of knitting.

Unfortunately, on the last night before she was to leave, Becky developed a rather nasty cough. Come the next morning, Becky still didn't feel well, and putting her on the train was harder for the Carsons than they'd expected. Charles would have preferred to have kept her at the cottage, but Becky had missed her friends and carers. Off she went, and Charles and Elsie enjoyed a leisurely dinner in the village at the local pub on their way back from the station, wondering in part if that was how parents felt when they ended up with some time to themselves.

This morning, though, the house felt positively _empty._ And Charles knows that if he felt Becky's absence acutely, then it must be at least twice as painful for his wife.

"Your thoughts are invading mine, I think," she says eventually. "Becky?"

He nods; she catches the motion out of the corner of her eye as they're walking.

"I hope she telephones this evening," Charles replies, his footfalls even on this drier part of the path. "Do you think they'll suggest it?"

"They will," Elsie says calmly, wondering for a moment if she's soothing herself as much as her husband. "After all, she'll probably be insistent. It _is_ the last Tuesday of the month, after all. And the staff will want us to know she's settled in again nicely."

They walk on a bit more, the noise from the town center beginning to find its way to their ears.

"Is she often ill like this?"

Elsie is taken aback by the question, and she furrows her brow as she thinks. "I'm not sure," she answers truthfully. "I hear from her so seldom, as you know. Our last-Tuesday-of-the-month telephone call and a letter every other week … I don't think it's ever really come up much. Certainly there's been nothing serious. But I'm sure she suffers colds and the occasional odd thing just like the rest of us."

"What about when you lived on the farm?" he asks. He's not sure why, but it seems important that he might learn this about them, these two sisters whom he adores with all his heart.

Elsie falters, opening her mouth to speak before closing it again. Charles waits, always patient, allowing her to recall that far back.

"Yes," she says eventually, and it's a sad murmur that wrenches his heart. "She was often ill when we were young, as was I."

Charles looks over to her, wondering, and is only half-surprised to see her bottom lip tucked under her teeth. Her eyes seem watery and there's a bit of pink to her complexion ... things he knows aren't merely to be attributed to the brisk winter day.

"I'm sorry," he tells her. "I didn't mean to unearth anything you'd rather not speak of."

But she squeezes his arm tightly and shakes her head. "It's fine. _Really._ I just … Well, I've not thought about that life for a long time."

The village square is before them now, and Mr. Andrews's office lies just behind the fountain.

"Oh, look," Elsie says. "We've arrived!"

Charles forces a smile, but the extra brightness in her voice hadn't fooled him at all. She was sad to think back on those days, and he wonders about that. It's funny to him sometimes that he and Elsie have known each other for decades, have even _loved_ each other for a good part of that time, yet there was still so much they didn't know about one another.

The lesson goes remarkably well, and they leave with a plan in place: Elsie will experiment with the camera on a variety of topics - close-ups of favorite items at home, longer-distance shots of the regular bird at the suet feeder, and even one or two portraits of her husband. Indoors and outdoors, in all sorts of light; Mr. Andrews gave her very clear instructions, which Charles noted meticulously in a small pocket notebook as Elsie's hands were occupied with getting a feel for the camera itself.

"Come back when you've finished, and we'll develop them in the dark room," Mr. Andrews said, to which Charles raised an eyebrow. "Erm, with your husband along to see how it's done as well, of course," the kind gentleman added quickly, making Elsie both blush at the implication and chuckle when she saw the look on Charles's face.

The walk home is much warmer now that the sun's out, and Elsie chatters on about various ideas for portraits of Charles. He indulges her, joking about whether or not Lord Grantham could spare the old butler's livery, or if perhaps he should don his cricket whites despite it being off-season. Her laughter is light, and he's grateful for it.

Dinner is a small affair that evening, a small roasted chicken and some root vegetables from the home farm that Mrs. Patmore had sent down last week. They cook together these days, with Charles helping with some of the cutting and peeling on the days his hands aren't a bother, or simply stirring and keeping an eye on things when they are.

He's dozing on the settee when Elsie comes through from having cleaned up the dishes and wiped down the stove. They don't have an extravagant home by any means, but after living so many decades at the Abbey, they've found they prefer it that way. Still, she knows, a humble home is no excuse for messiness, and she's never been one to let things lie that need to be done.

"Charlie?" She lays a hand on his shoulder, and he snuffles a bit - not quite a snore, but more than a deep breath, and she smiles fondly at him as she trails her fingertips through his thinning hair.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I must've dozed off a bit."

She comes around the sofa to sit beside him, tucking herself under his arm. "Like every night," she reminds him, and she's rewarded with a small tickle to her side.

They love this easiness into which they've slipped since her retirement, the freedom they have to sleep in a bit in the morning (which is rare) or to share a cuddle by the fire after dinner (which isn't). Maneuvering herself a bit, Elsie ends up sitting back against her husband's side, and he turns to wrap her up in his arms.

"Do you need the afghan?" he asks.

"No, I'm nicely warm with you here," she replies agreeably, and a small hum escapes his mouth as he drops a kiss to her head.

The fire pops in the hearth and it startles him.

"Sorry," he mumbles, settling back down. "Must be a lot of pitch in the wood."

It's about five minutes later before she gives him any reply; he thought she'd fallen asleep, she was so quiet.

"It was a hard life," Elsie tells him softly, her eyes trained on the fire. "On the farm, I mean. Becky … me … She _was_ ill quite a lot, and I had to care for her. The doctor called it a 'failure to thrive' in the early days, but that was before they knew anything else was really wrong with her. Some winters … well, the winters could be long."

"You must've had quite a time trying to watch over her," he said cautiously, deftly ignoring the suggestion that there were many months where food was hardly plentiful. "You're not that far apart in age."

"I was six, yes. Should have been starting at the village school, but I didn't actually begin until after I'd turned seven. By then, Da had someone helping out on the farm, but it had always just been him and my Mam before that."

"With you in tow as a toddler? Surely not."

"No," she smiled wistfully. "Our Gran was alive until I turned five, and she lived with us."

His eyes grow wide, and he is grateful Elsie cannot see the shock on his face. "But after that, you were alone with Becky during the day, watching over her?"

She nods, which he feels against his shoulder. "The neighbor popped in at lunch to be sure we were fed, but yes - it was mostly down to me. We made do. We had to, really."

The fire dies down, and no more is said until much later, when Charles has nudged Elsie awake and suggested they head up to bed, where she can sleep more comfortably.

It's only when his lips are brushing her temple, his hand heavy on her hip, that she remembers.

"It was all right, Charlie. My childhood, I mean. I just worry about her is all."

He pulls back a bit to look in her eyes, and nods. "I know you do. So do I."

"I never wanted us to be a burden to you," Elsie whispers, and he lies down against the pillows and pulls her close, holding on tightly in the way he knows she finds comforting.

"You're not," he reminds her for the thousandth time.

As she drifts off to sleep, Charles peeks out the window and notices the pale moonbeams filtered through the branches of the pine that stands outside their cottage, wondering why they'd received no telephone call tonight from Becky's home.

He's nervous about that ... and he knows his wife is, too.

 _tbc_


	2. Dreams

**A/N: Thank you all for the kind reviews for Chapter 1! I'm glad you weren't scared away by a bit of angst. :) Special shout-out to the guest reviewers to whom I cannot personally send a message.**

 **xxx,**

 **CSotA**

* * *

Elsie wakes with a start, wondering what on earth had her up before the sunrise. She thinks she heard something downstairs, and she manages to slip out of bed without disturbing Charles. She grabs her robe and stuffs her arms through the sleeves as she goes off in search of the noise, and it occurs to her halfway down that this may not be the safest course of action.

But when she arrives at the foot of the steps, all she notices is a great deal of darkness, broken up only by the flickering of the dying embers in the kitchen hearth.

 _Oh! There it is again!_

She knows the sound now, of course, recognizes it in an instant, and she rushes for the telephone on the desk in their parlour before it can ring again and wake her husband. She curses silently, having stubbed her toe on the foot of the settee as she was rushing by.

"Carson residence?" Her voice comes out in a whisper, and she cannot make out what the person on the other end of the line is saying. His speech is slurred but fast, and she gasps audibly when it dawns on her that the voice she's hearing belongs to Charlie Grigg.

"Why are you calling us?" she asks when Grigg takes a breath. "Mr. Grigg? Whatever is the matter? I can't make out what you're saying." But just as he begins to answer her, the line goes dead.

"Mr. Grigg?" she asks again, despite her knowledge that he's clearly no longer listening at the other end of the line.

As Elsie replaces the earpiece on the phone, she notices that her hands are trembling. She'd been terrified upon answering, assuming that the call in the middle of the night would be from Becky's home, a nurse or carer on the other end of the line relaying some horrible news that her dear sister's cold had taken a bad turn. Still puzzled, and now wondering what on earth Grigg has gotten involved in that would necessitate a phone call at this ungodly hour - and to Charles, of all people, given that she doubts he was trying to reach _her_ \- Elsie glances at the clock on the mantle.

 _Four fifteen._

"Of course," she sighs, giving up any hopes of getting back to sleep now.

The embers in the hearth are barely burning, and Elsie grabs the bellows and crouches down to fan some air onto them in the hopes of perking them up before adding a handful of dry kindling to the pile. Her knees are weak from the adrenaline rush of the phone call, though, and she needs to reach for the mantle to help herself stand again. The fire begins to grow, and suddenly a piece of the kindling pops and shifts, rolling off of the rest and bouncing just near the edge of the rug.

"Oh!" As she reaches for the water they keep close by, she stumbles, falling forward and putting her hands out to steady herself. But she doesn't quite reach the wall; her head hits the corner of the mantle, and the world goes dim ...

"Elsie? Els, wake up!"

Elsie's eyes open quickly, and she's confused to see Charles's face, shrouded in darkness and shadow, looming over her.

"Ohhh, I think I hit my head," she says, her voice raspy as she reaches up to rub her temple.

"No, love. You're fine. Still safe in bed."

She squints; she can't be hearing this right. "In bed?"

Now Charles is concerned. "You're in bed, Elsie," he explains lovingly. "You were having a bad dream. I heard you scream, and then you reached out and hit me."

"Did I?" She sits up slowly, assisted by a rather worried husband. "But Mr. Grigg called, and then I fell …"

Elsie looks around her and verifies that she is, in fact, still in bed. Still in their bedroom, upstairs, far away from the fire downstairs ...

"Oh, heavens," she says, "You're right. I must have been dreaming. Except it was _so real …_ "

"Grigg? Why on earth would he be telephoning us?"

"I've no idea. I ... I thought I woke up because I heard something, and I went downstairs and heard the telephone. I answered it, because I thought it was Becky's home- " She reaches out and clutches Charlie's arm, aghast. "Oh, I thought the worst, Charlie. A phone call in the middle of the night like that …"

"Except it _wasn't_ a phone call, Elsie," he replies, his voice carefully measured and calm. "It was just a bad dream. I'm just not sure how Grigg figures in."

"Neither am I." She shakes her head, trying to clear it. "Sometimes dreams make no sense, you know? I couldn't understand what he was saying, but I was certain it was him. Anyhow, the line went dead, and so I went into the kitchen to build up the fire and make some tea. But a piece of kindling popped out of the pile. When I leaned over to reach the water, I stumbled. I tried to reach out for the wall to avoid falling but I hit my head instead - or so I thought," she says sheepishly.

"But instead of reaching for the wall, you reached for me. And rather forcefully, I might add," he chuckles.

Elsie had forgotten about that. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Charles. Did I hurt you?"

But he smiles at her, his eyebrows raised in amusement. "Hardly. I woke up is all. No harm done."

"Hm."

Charles fluffs up his pillows and leans against the headboard, raising his arm once he's settled so that his wife can tuck herself up against him, which she happily does.

"I'm sorry you were disturbed by such a strange dream," he murmurs, leaning over to drop a kiss to her forehead.

"I'm sorry _you_ were," she replies, squeezing him around the middle.

They're quiet for several moments, but then Elsie adds, "I'm worried, Charlie. I can't believe we haven't heard from Becky's home. What if she's really ill?"

"Well, can _we_ telephone _them?_ " he asks.

"I suppose so," she answers. "I have all of their information in the book inside the desk drawer."

"Then that's what we'll do. _After_ breakfast. Do you think you can sleep some more, love?"

"I doubt it."

"Well, it's nearly six," Charles tells her after reaching to check the watch on his nightstand. "Why don't we run you a hot bath, hm? Soak away the rest of the cobwebs from that blasted dream. I can manage a couple of eggs, and then we'll eat and give the home a call afterwards."

Elsie moves, shifting and sitting up a bit, and she reaches out and caresses his stubble-laced cheek in the palm of her hand.

"You're wonderful. Did you know that?"

"Hardly," he replies, turning his face and kissing her palm.

She stretches up and places several more kisses to his lips, and then one to the tip of his nose.

"You are," she insists before breaking away and getting out of the bed. "And I love you for it."

Half an hour later, Elsie is emerging from the now-tepid bath when she hears the crash from the kitchen. She bites her lip, forcing herself not to call down with a concerned question or offer of help. Charles is managing the tremors as well as he can, and the best help she's been able to give him has been to back away and let him sort things for himself, stepping in to assist only when he requests it.

But it doesn't stop her from worrying.

Last month, there had been the dirty bowl that had slipped from his hands into the water, where its fall had been cushioned and no tragedy had occurred. But the week after that, he'd dropped a knife, which luckily had fallen to the floor a few inches to the left of where he'd been standing and not on his slipper-clad foot.

Two weeks ago, however, it had been the razor. That had been the worst, even though he'd assured her time and time again that a little nick bleeds quite a lot despite not being a long, deep gash. Thinking back now, she muses that it was the sight of the blood droplets on his shirt that made it so awful - his always _pristine_ shirt, which seemed to be mocking her with its garish, red stains. The look on her face made Charles turn to peer at himself in the mirror; the look upon _his_ face when he saw the damage to the shirt nearly did her in. Charles Carson, who'd lived a life of exacting standards that once made him dress down a footman for half an inch of unstitched livery, was nearly brought to his knees in shame from the sight of some blood staining his own immaculate clothing.

"I can't do a damned thing with this tremor," he'd grumbled, and Elsie had reached for his hand.

"Then _I'll_ do some of those things," she'd replied, resting her head on his shoulder. "And you _can_ ask for help, you know. There's no shame in that. Not with me."

And so they forged ahead with a new plan, one that she was doing her level best to maintain.

But at times it was _hard,_ times like these when her husband was downstairs cursing and she had sworn not to simply pop down there and fix things for him. Her concern wasn't misplaced, but during these times it did nothing to help, either.

Elsie dries off quickly and rinses the tub once it's fully drained. Donning her clothing, she's halfway through pinning up her hair when she realizes they've got nowhere to go anyhow, and so she leaves it down to dry. Charles has commented several times that he finds it attractive when she wears her long hair down and unplaited, and while she'd never dare to leave the house in that state, she wonders if it might serve as a welcome distraction to him now.

"Smells wonderful," she says as she enters the kitchen. "May I do anything?"

"Not at all," Charles replies. He turns to smile at her and notices her hair. "That's a nice surprise."

"Well, we aren't going anywhere," she tells him, reaching for the teapot and pouring them each a cup. "Not now, anyhow. And it's rather warm in here now you've got the fire going, so I thought I'd leave it down and let it dry a bit."

Charles comes up behind her as she's stirring her milk in and wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her towards himself as he leans over and buries his face in her long tresses, inhaling the scent of her hair before moving it aside and placing a few gentle kisses to the side of her neck.

"Lavender," he murmurs, and she giggles as his words and lips tickle her.

"Nothing new there," she replies. "Although I _am_ starving, Mr. Carson, and I fear if you keep doing _that_ then we might never eat."

He nips playfully at her earlobe before returning his attention to the stove. She sits, nervous with anticipation about the trek their plates of food are about to take between the stove and the table.

But the tremor has disappeared for now. Charles serves up their breakfast with flair, and Elsie manages to devour not only her eggs but over half of the bacon he'd heated as well.

"I can't believe how hungry I was," she chuckles.

"That was your worry making you hungry," he comments, nodding toward her plate. "Are you sure you're all right?"

She looks up at him as she reaches across the corner of the table for his hand. "I'll be fine once I hear Becky's sweet voice," she says, refusing to voice her knowledge of his difficulties in the kitchen this morning. She'd learned years ago, well before being his wife, that where Charles was concerned, some things were better left unsaid.

They finish their meal, and Elsie insists on clearing the dishes and doing the washing while Charles retrieves some wood from the shed outdoors. She steals a peek at him through the window from time to time, but there is no evidence that he's struggling with the logs.

"Getting cold out there," he says upon returning. "I fear we'll be having yet another storm in a day or two."

"Yes, I could see your breath steaming when I peeked out at you. Go warm yourself by the fire, and then we'll call the home."

He complies, and Elsie finishes putting away the breakfast dishes before fetching the paper with the home's information.

She sits quietly as Charles gets the operator to connect them, and he reaches out for her hand, which she readily places in his.

"Hello? Yes, this is Charles Carson. I'm calling to speak with my sister-in-law, Becky Hughes … Oh? … Yes, that's correct, two nights ago. A cold, yes … Oh, I do wish someone had called to let us know ... No, no, that's all right ..."

Elsie watches her husband as he closes his eyes and nods. "Of course," he says. "We were worried, you see. My wife- … Yes, she's right here."

Charles drops her hand to pass the phone to her. "She'd like to speak to you," he tells her quietly, and she nods as she takes the phone.

"Hello? … Becky! Oh, darling, we were worried about you!" She chuckles, rolling her eyes, and Charles - who already got the full story - smiles in understanding. "I can hear that now, petal … Of course you did … Yes, of course it's all right … Don't you worry, dear. Perhaps you can write? … Yes, I'll be on the lookout … I love you too, my darling. Take care … Of course you can, he's just here …"

She hands the phone back to Charles, listening in amusement as he attempts a fairly difficult conversation with their beloved Becky.

 _Laryngitis,_ Elsie thinks, chuckling to herself. _The poor lass. But she's on the mend now, which is all that matters._

 **oOoOoOoOo**

Elsie gasps as Charles's fingertips ghost across her abdomen that night, trailing down the side of her thigh and lifting her nightgown.

"Does that tickle?" he asks, but she shakes her head.

"You know it doesn't," she whispers, reaching for his head and pulling it down so that she can kiss him.

He moves onto his back eventually, encouraging his wife to straddle his body, and she removes the gown from her body in one fluid motion.

"Gorgeous," he breathes, caressing her skin - _all_ of her skin - while she unpins her hair once again and leans forward, letting it cascade down over them both as she captures his lips in a deep, fevered kiss.

 _No bad dreams tonight,_ she thinks. It's the last coherent thought she has before turning herself over to her husband completely, her worries at bay … for now, at least.

* * *

 ** _tbc_**

 **I'd love a wee review if you're so inclined. x**


	3. Mist

**A/N: Thanks for all the kind reviews. Each and every one is very much appreciated, as is your never-ending support. xxx**

 **CSotA**

* * *

Elsie opens her eyes and blinks a few times to clear her vision, which is still a bit fuzzy from sleep. She woke up a minute or two before, but the remnants of the dream she'd been having were delightful and worth keeping hold of as long as she could. Now they're beginning to fade, though the subject of the dream is sleeping steadily about a foot away from her, and she turns her attentions to the actual man, instead.

She allows her eyes to roam over her husband's slumbering face, drinking in every aspect of his stately features. While his face had hardly been foreign to her when they married, she was delighted to discover the morning after their wedding that it appears completely different when he sleeps. Elsie hadn't ever considered that before, not having shared a room with another soul for decades - and never having shared a bed since she was a wee lass on the farm. But Charlie's face is _beautiful_ when he sleeps. She refuses to describe it as such to him, knowing he'd likely be mortified. But there is simply no other word that comes to her mind. His brow loses the worry lines that he carries throughout the day - now more out of habit, she knows, than actual stress - and she notices the same about his lips; he's calm, safe, and secure, unworried … and, she thinks, _happy._

She's happy too. More than she ever thought she had a right to be, truth be told. She sees him like this and her own worry slips away, as if everything in those wee hours is perfect, the world outside their carefully cared for home a blur to her.

Charles snuffles a bit in his sleep, and it nearly makes her laugh. His lips flutter, as if he's speaking in his sleep, and perhaps he is. She'll need to remember to ask him about his dreams.

After a while, Charles rolls away from her, and so rather than lying there and staring at his back, she contemplates getting up and starting the tea. The sun is rising, but it's not shaping up to be a nice day. It's rained for the last three, and she's grown impatient and frustrated with the cold, dreary winter they're having. While she prefers the rain to the snow, it's bound to ice later on, and _that_ isn't something she looks forward to at all. But the rain means one more thing, too: she won't be out snapping photographs if it's pouring down.

Elsie grimaces as she realizes she's not even used the camera once since leaving the studio the other day. She simply hasn't had the opportunity. A vast array of landscape images flash through her mind for the millionth time, pictures she wants to capture and perhaps frame, send one to Becky and place another in a small silver frame on the nightstand. But it's rained off and on since then, and she's beginning to go a little crazy thinking about it.

With a sigh, she gets up. The tea isn't going to make itself, after all, and it doesn't appear as though Elsie is getting back to sleep, either. Donning her nightgown and dressing gown, she glances over at Charles one more time, a soft smile coming to her lips. She tiptoes over to his side of the bed and leans over, holding her hair away from his face as she brings her lips to his temple, a ghost of a kiss.

 _There,_ she thinks, nodding. _Better._

She heads down, a spring in her step.

 **oOoOoOoOo**

"I don't think it's a bad idea," Charles is saying around a mouthful of egg. He wipes his mouth, and smirks at her raised eyebrow. "What?"

"You never used to do that," she says.

"Never used to do what?" he asks, thoroughly confused.

"Encourage me when _I_ think something is a bad idea," she replies, laughing. "Where is the curmudgeonly old butler I know and love?"

"You turned him into a husband," he retorts, flicking his bushy eyebrows playfully. "And he's hardly complaining about _that._ "

"Oh, hush. But really, Charles. It's so wet out! Surely that's not good for the camera itself?"

"I don't know," he muses. "I mean, if it's not raining anymore, I imagine that if you don't drop it in the grass or the patches of snow then you'll be all right. Perhaps."

"I'll try not to." Her voice is laced with sarcasm, but he knows she means nothing by it and chuckles as he lifts the tea.

 _No tremors today,_ she thinks gratefully.

"You have eight exposures on that roll, and we've planned five practice shots so far. I say we take those, and then head outside and see what else you can capture."

"What if they're no good?"

Charles rises and takes his plate to the sink, then returns for hers and drops a kiss to her lips when she hands it to him with a nod of thanks.

"You have a wonderful eye for all things, Elsie: decoration, atmosphere, what isn't enough versus what is over the top and offensive. I hardly think photography will be any different."

She stares at his back as he heads to the sink again and begins rinsing.

"I have a good eye for husbands, too, I think," she says softly.

He doesn't turn, but she knows he's smiling.

"Thank you for that, Charlie. Perhaps we will give it a go after all."

 **oOoOoOoOo**

The five shots that Elsie and Charles had animatedly discussed over the last couple of days go splendidly. Wanting a still life sort of image, Elsie gets a photo of the small potted plant on her sill, the flowers' colors shining brightly in a way she hopes will give depth to the photograph even though it'll be a black-and-white print. She then takes two of Charles: one in his cricket whites, posing very seriously with his bat and looking off to the side, and a second of him sitting in his chair, spectacles perched on his nose as he reads a favorite book. He's mildly threatened her about not showing that to anyone as he still hasn't let anybody but Elsie and the doctor know he even _needs_ the eyeglasses, but she has no intentions of sharing that photo anyhow … it's the one she plans to keep on the nightstand, and she tells him so after she takes it.

"Why would you do that?" he asks. But she just smiles and shakes her head, and he leaves it.

The fourth and fifth planned photographs are a bit trickier to aim and capture, but she manages. One is a shot taken from inside the window of the land outside, Elsie interested in seeing how the presence of the window pane will affect the photograph. The other is of the fire burning in the hearth - a subject in motion, but one that does not move quickly, and also something much brighter in composition than the others.

Charles is pulling on his gloves as Elsie buttons her coat. "Are you ready?"

Her eyes are alight with joy, and she nods. "I am, actually. It's not sunny out, but it isn't raining yet, either. I'm curious to see if it's warming up at all, and what effect that will have on the land."

They head out, Elsie keeping the camera clasped tightly in her hands. Before long, a cat wanders out in their path, and she stops walking and tugs her husband's hand to encourage him to follow suit.

"He's adorable," she gushes, peeking through the viewfinder. "If he holds steady …"

The click startles the cat and he runs off, but not before she smiles. "Got you, little one," she whispers, and Charles laughs.

The last two photographs are landscapes, but the second makes Elsie let out a quiet sigh as she looks for the perfect perspective, becoming restless and slightly frustrated.

"It's gorgeous, isn't it, Charlie? The mist rolling over the land, and the crumbling wall just there …"

She continues muttering to herself, moving here and there and peeking through the little view window, and Charles can't help but stare at her. The dampness in the air has encouraged a few tendrils of her hair to curl around her face, and he's stunned by how lovely it is. She's got a darkness to her lips from the cold, and the red color is a mirror of the dark coat she wears, both in contrast to the paleness of her skin and the whiteness surrounding them.

"Elsie?"

She lifts her head. "Hm?"

"Do you think … well, do you think that _I_ might take the last photograph? Would you mind? Would you show me what to do?"

Her eyes widen. She'd not even considered that Charlie might want to share in her hobby.

He, of course, mistakes her hesitation for disapproval. "It's fine if you don't," he tells her, shaking his head. "It's your gift, and it wasn't meant to be _my_ hobby. I don't mean to make off with -"

"Charlie, you've not even given me a chance to answer you," she says with a laugh. "Of course I wouldn't mind. Would you like to have a go at the picture of the cottage? I can't seem to get it."

He moves closer to her, reaching out and laying his hand on her hip. ""No."

"Oh? Then what were you thinking of?"

"You."

" _Me?_ What do you mean?"

"You, as in … a photograph of you. You look …" his voice trails off, but she sees how his eyes are roaming over her face, and she's reminded of early that morning, how she desired to drink in his appearance and capture it somehow in her mind.

She lifts a hand to his cheek. "You're daft, I think, to want a photograph of me whilst I stand out here in the damp, hardly presentable for anything beyond our own garden."

"That, my dear, is _precisely_ the look that interests me … very natural, I think. I'd rather like to capture that."

Elsie shakes her head slowly, smiling at him. "Very well. Here, you hold it like this …"

 ** _TBC_**

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 **Sorry to cut there, but as next week's prompt will be "Transformation," it was kinda necessary. :) I'd love a review if you're so inclined. x**


	4. Transformation

**A/N: A short, fluffy update today. Thanks for all the sweetness, folks. I truly appreciate each and every one of you who is taking the time to read and review my writing. xxx  
CSotA**

* * *

Charles places his hand at his wife's hip … and waits. It's small and hot in the darkroom, and it makes him acutely aware of her proximity.

"Charles," Elsie says, a whisper of a warning that her husband is determinedly ignoring. Instead, he puts his other hand on the hip opposite and pulls her back to his chest, his thumbs absentmindedly caressing the small of her back as his lips brush her ear.

"Don't worry, love," he whispers, knowing full well that just the feeling of the words on the shell of her ear is likely to drive her half mad.

"That's not fair," she replies, and her head tilts to allow him access to her neck, where he plants a soft, sensual kiss. "We won't be home for at least two more hours, love."

"I know," he reassures her, stepping back a little. "But it was too good an opportunity to pass up. I plan to finish _this_ conversation later."

"Promise?"

Mr. Andrews knocks at the door, and Elsie manages to break free and moves over to where the first of the photographs had been placed.

"They should be ready to hang now!" the photographer announces, and Elsie rolls her eyes; she'll have to slip past her husband in order to get to the door, and she knows Charlie will never exit the room before her.

She makes sure to brush her hand against his backside as she squeezes by.

"Until tonight then, Mr. Carson," she murmurs playfully, and then she reaches to open the door.

 **oOoOoOo**

Elsie nibbles gently on the inside of her lip, contemplating the prints before her. One hadn't come out at all - the photograph of the cat - but she'd half-expected that given how fast he'd been moving when she snapped it. The ones of her and Charles are nice, and it gives her a surge of pride that he did so well taking her picture given that he'd barely even _held_ the camera before, except for when it was purchased.

Her favorites are the one of Charles reading his book and the picture of the fire. The fire was the one she was most worried about, truth be told, but it's absolutely mesmerizing. She can almost _feel_ the heat coming off of the photo, and the sepia tone actually serves to highlight some of the nuances of the flames.

"That's the best one," Charles says quietly from his spot beside her. His hands are clasped behind him, and she turns to see him examining all of the pictures intently as they're clipped on the line. "The fire," he clarifies. "Although the flower is quite nice as well."

"I rather like the one of you in the secret spectacles," she teases with a chuckle, "but I agree about the fire."

Mr. Andrews is standing nearby and offers his own opinion.

"They're remarkable for your first time, Mrs. Carson. Will you be keeping them all, then?"

Elsie nods. "I think so, yes. Even the one of the cat, which is what that white blur is supposed to be. That'll be a good reminder not to be impulsive."

"Oh, I don't know," Mr. Andrews replies. "Sometimes you get your best shots from being impulsive." He smirks. "Just perhaps not with _cats._ "

"Just so," Elsie agrees, laughing. "Well, these will need to dry … for how long?"

"Oh, two or three hours, I'd say. It's drier out today, thankfully. The humidity does make a difference. If you've errands to do in the village, I'd suggest getting a spot of lunch and doing what you need to do. Then come back here when you've finished and we'll see where we are, hm?"

Elsie looks at Charles, who tilts his head in deference to her wishes.

"That sounds like a splendid idea. Thank you. We'll be back around three if that suits?"

"Perfect," Mr. Andrews replies.

 **oOoOoOo**

Elsie and Charles meander through the village, her hand tucked safely in the crook of his elbow. It's brisk out, but not as cold as it has been, and with the sun having emerged from behind dark clouds, it's a most splendid day to be out and about.

Charles follows his wife dutifully, needing nothing in town himself but aware that there are a few things she needs for the kitchen, as well as the gift for Miss Sybbie's upcoming birthday. That, he knows already, will necessitate a stop at the local bookstore, fulfilling Elsie's annual tradition of gifting the young lass with something to read.

Elsie has not a care in the world today. Charles seems well, his tremors not bothering him one bit (not even earlier this morning, when his buttons, cuff links, and necktie were all securely fastened by the time she emerged from the bath). The day is sunny, the film has been developed and prints await them, the cottage is clean, and dinner is cooking in the oven for when they return home. Nothing else could please her more, she thinks, than the way life is treating her today.

She steals a glance at her handsome man; he turns to catch her eye and winks, and she feels that very familiar flip in her stomach, smiling and shaking her head a bit in disbelief that the man beside her is, indeed, her husband.

Finally.

 **oOoOoOo**

In the end, both the image of the plant and that of the fire take pride of place in their parlour at home. Charles insisted on purchasing two matching frames while in town, and the two he selected now sit side by side on the mantle, tilted in slightly and separated only by a small statue of a fir tree that Becky had painted for her sister a decade ago and sent to her for Christmas. Elsie is loathe to put away all of their decorations, and the tree is just plain enough that she feels it can remain for most of the winter. Charles, of course - ever the staunch supporter of _both_ Hughes women - agrees.

"The photographs look marvelous," he tells his wife, drawing her into his arms as they stand before the fireplace.

"It's rather amazing that we have it in our power to do that, isn't it?" she muses. "To take something plain, like paper, and turn it into a thing of beauty just by how we see something in the world around us ... by how we determine what is meant to be captured forever?"

"That's very philosophical of you," Charles commented. "And very true. Where are the others going?"

"Well," she replies, turning in his arms and resting her hands on his broad chest, "I think the ones of us should be in the bedroom. They all came out well, and we each wanted one for our bedside table anyhow. The cricket pose is very dashing, by the way. That one can go on the dresser."

"If you wish." He dips his head down for a kiss, one meant to be rather chaste but which lingers instead, causing his wife to hum happily against his lips.

"And the one of the stone wall?" he asks when they break apart. "I'm not going to apologize that you didn't get that from the other angle, because I think your portrait came out beautifully, but I am sorry that the mist was so heavy in the one you _did_ capture."

"I think I'll give that one to Becky." She slips her hand into her husband's nightshirt and deftly unfastens one of the middle buttons. "And I think that's enough sorting of things for tonight, dear. It is getting late, and I believe you've got a promise to keep."

She raises her eyebrows and slowly draws her lower lip beneath her teeth, looking at him expectantly.

"You're a witch," he whispers, and he leans down to nibble her earlobe.

"As if you mind," she retorts.

Charles takes his wife's hand in his and squeezes.

"Not at all, love. Shall we go up?"

She squeezes him back, her heart swelling with love for all that she has.

"I thought you'd never ask."

As she follows him to the stairs, Elsie's eyes glance one more time upon the photos over their fireplace. It occurs to her that perhaps she, too, has been transformed - not by paper and chemicals, but by the beauty that her _husband_ sees in _her._

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! x**


	5. Desire

**A/N: Week five of unofficiadas8, proofread late at night so pardon any errors.  
Warrants an uptick in rating, because my adults are enjoying being married. **

**Thanks to all of you for your support. xx**

 **CSotA**

* * *

The fire is going strong in the bedroom when they walk in, and Elsie smiles approvingly. It's the only light in the room, and the flickering of the flames is bouncing off of the glass shades of the bedside lamps, giving the room an almost ethereal glow. Charlie closes the door behind them, and the soft _click_ of the latch catching seems loud to her ears compared to the crackling of the wood.

The atmosphere in the room is heavily charged tonight. She normally hates an atmosphere, but not now. Not _this_ atmosphere. This is one of her favorite things, though she'd never utter those words aloud. Even after many months of being Mrs. Carson, she can't bring herself to verbalize all she thinks and feels about the physical aspect of their married lives. It's come to mean so much to her, this way they have of setting aside every protective barrier they've so carefully built up, surrendering so completely to one another.

Charles lays his hands upon her upper arms, and her breath hitches. It's not that he's surprised her, but more the electrifying sensation of him touching her. Sometimes it isn't like that at all, but there was something about this entire day that had her on edge, her senses heightened and her awareness more keen than usual, and she knows he realized it … and that he's probably going to use it to his advantage.

She hopes so, at any rate.

His hands are steady and warm as he rubs her shoulders, massaging away her tension, and he is acutely aware of how small and fragile she seems. It's not an accurate assessment, because she's honestly one of the strongest people he's ever known, but her diminutive size is startling when she's standing just before him as she is now, her heeled shoes long-since removed. His thumbs press in by her shoulder blades before moving up to the nape of her neck, and she tips her head forward to allow him better access. Her tension dissipates slowly, and Charles wonders for a moment what it was that had her muscles so taut. He'd ask, but he's loath to interrupt the moment by speaking.

A low, brief moan escapes her lips, and any thoughts he had of speaking are gone because words have suddenly failed him. It isn't an erotic sound she's made, but one which signals her giving in to the comfort he's offering; she's laying herself bare before him, her guard completely down. She's only _ever_ like this with _him_ , and he with her. It has taken them an extraordinarily long time to get to this point; it's _desire_ , in its purest form. Desire not only to touch, to feel the softness of skin beneath fingertips, but to see in each other's eyes a complete surrender, the fullness of their mutual trust. They're two people who've spent a lifetime strong and unyielding to the pressures life has heaped upon them, now fully entrusting themselves to one another's care.

She turns beneath his touch, her arms wrapping around his body as she pulls him close, her ear over his chest. She, too, is cognizant at times like these of the difference in their stature and size, but she's grateful for it as well, for being just the right height to listen to his strong heartbeat, imagining that her own slows down just a little in order for them to be in unison. It's foolishness, and she knows enough about science to realize it doesn't work that way; it's a frivolous thought, and while she doesn't allow herself to give in to those frequently, this one she thinks she'll hold onto.

She loosens her grip on his body and trails her fingers up his back, pressing in and massaging where she can, a feeble attempt to return his kindness from moments ago. She has no hope of being able to do so effectively, not with his tight muscles, grown from years of lifting trays and polishing silver, of standing at attention for hours on end. But the need to return the comfort he offered is so ingrained into her psyche that she does not know how _not_ to do it.

Eventually, her fingers slip under his braces, and she grasps the elasticized fabric with her thumbs and slowly slides them off of his shoulders, her fingers ghosting down his arm. She tips her head back, catches the smile in his eyes as he looks at her, then closes her own eyes in anticipation.

When his lips touch down on hers, it's brief and intense, a firm pressing of his mouth on hers with no room for breath between them, and she can now feel the effect that their simple touches have had on her husband. His hands travel up to cradle her head and he plunges his fingers into her hair, causing her to make some kind of humming sound in the back of her throat. The feeling inside of her chest, a swelling desire that she'd felt from the moment they'd crossed the bedroom threshold, sinks rapidly. It lands somewhere in the lower part of her abdomen, and her heart beats even faster than before as if to compensate for the loss in her chest.

He pulls away and then moves his hands to her stomach, where he pulls gently at the tails of her blouse, untucking it slowly from her skirt before he begins to unwork the buttons. The trembling is present but not in an interfering way, and Elsie is patient as he finishes his task, her fingertips sliding just underneath the waistband of his trousers and teasing his skin … waiting.

When her blouse falls open, she sees the fire in his eyes and stills her hands.

And that's when she knows: he's waiting, waiting for _her_ to take the lead, that he understands how she's struggled these past few days, and that she needs to feel in control of something.

And this is a very good something, indeed.

Her hands slide to the front of his body, resting on his stomach for a moment before reaching for the button at his collar … which she unbuttons with practiced ease before sending her fingers cascading down the entire placket, not bothering to take her time. What she really wants happens a moment later, when she tucks her hands underneath the white cotton of his shirt and moves them up to his shoulders, sliding the shirt off of him completely. She's not pulled it from his trousers and it hangs down, a victim of gravity and his belt. Before he can pull it off, though, her hands are traveling up his bare arms. The short sleeves of his undershirt are tight around his thick biceps, and she slides her fingertips under edges of the sleeves before finally reaching down to pull his button-down shirt from his trousers; it and the undershirt end up on the floor.

So does her blouse.

And her skirt, followed by his trousers and shorts.

She takes his hand and leads him to their bed - purposefully, the way she does most things - and he follows half a step behind, the way he's spent so much of their life together.

He minds less now.

Once she climbs onto their bed, she silently turns control of the situation over to Charles. She lies back, her body thrumming with energy, and her eyes close when he touches her, a soft gasp passing over her lips.

His touch is _so_ light, _so_ reverent, that she nearly grabs his hand and presses it harder to her body. She needs to feel more, but she exercises immense patience because she knows that _more_ will be coming soon enough. Several long, tantalizing moments later, she's sitting up, the lace of her brassiere brushing against his arm. It's been about a month that she's been wearing these as opposed to her corset and she loves the freedom they afford her, the way she's able to breathe in a way she never was able to do before.

 _He_ loves the way they come off easily - fewer hooks and less pressure required make it easier for him to remove.

It takes Charles a moment to calm himself. There's something about her white, creamy skin with the firelight casting shadows across her breasts that nearly overwhelms him. It's so opposite to the way they spent most of their years, when she was hidden away from him underneath the dreaded corset and stiff layers of black crinoline and lace.

The noise she makes when he reaches out for her leg, runs his fingers up the inside of her thigh - and follows the trail with his lips - is inhuman.

Neither of them care.

Soon he's moving over her - then, _finally,_ she thinks, within her - and her desire is climbing anew. She's clawing at his body, pulling him closer, vaguely aware that he's holding back because he's afraid to harm her somehow. Somewhat frustrated, she pushes at him instead and they shift. His eyes darken as he now has the advantage of being able to see all of her _and_ use his hands … which he does as she moves to straddle his body. She leans down, captures his lips once again with her own, and bites down teasingly.

It's not long before heart rates quicken once again, but she bides her time, speeding up and then slowing again in an attempt to draw out this intense connection that their marriage has gifted them. But eventually they're simultaneously - _blissfully_ \- falling over the edge.

It takes them several moments to catch their breath, several moments for her body to stop trembling even after she's slid down beside him on the bed, lying on her side with her hand heavy on his stomach. Her fingers are traveling absentmindedly over his skin, and she can hear the beating of his heart even though her head is now quite far from his chest.

She wonders belatedly if it isn't her own heart she's hearing.

Charles turns to her, his eyes heavy with sleep.

"I love you," he mumbles, and she hears thirty years' worth of _I love yous_ in the words.

"I know," she whispers, trailing her fingers through the sparse hairs on his chest. "I love you, too."

He tilts his head and places a soft kiss to her temple, and he's asleep in moments.

She waits five, perhaps ten minutes, her body loathe to move even though she knows she must. She finally gets up from the bed, manages to clean her teeth and use the loo and add logs to the fire. A glance at the clothing on the floor makes her shudder, and she quickly retrieves their items and tosses them over the back of the chair, knowing she can deal with them in the morning. She reaches for a nightie and slips it on, then crawls back into bed beside Charlie. He's warm, solid, and deeply asleep.

Tucking herself underneath his arm, she smiles when he snuffles in his sleep.

"Good night, Charlie," she whispers into the night.

She pulls the blanket up a bit and leaves one more kiss on his chest, her concerns and worries at bay as she drifts into a peaceful slumber.

* * *

 **I'd love a review if you're so inclined. A special thank-you to the guest reviewers as I cannot thank you in person. x**


	6. Devotion

**A/N: Thanks to you all for your lovely reviews. It's fun to write a bit of Chelsie fluff and love now and again. xx,**

 **CSotA**

* * *

It's a cold, rainy afternoon, the last vestiges of frost losing their power as the days become slightly longer and the air just a bit milder during the afternoon hours. The last snowfall was two weeks prior, and barely a snowfall at that. It is only at night now that the icy patches make themselves known again, on the sides of the road to and from the cottage and in that one determined spot on the back patio, where the stone had worn away just enough for a small indentation to collect water and allow it to freeze.

Charles catches himself humming as he closes their household account ledger. He has every right to be happy, and when he realizes that his happiness is coming out in soft song, he chuckles. A lift of the cover once again, another glance at the final tally, and his humming begins again, for the number in the small box is greater than he had imagined it might be. He changed a few of his investment schemes around when he and Elsie married, added a larger sum when she retired, and the choice appears to have been a good one. Becky's care is funded, there is enough in the "rainy-day" fund to pay for any repairs that might be needed at the Brouncker Road property, and more than enough for the small surprise he has planned for his wife, too.

As he closes the book once more, his eyes fall upon the small items on his desk - well, _their_ desk, he supposes, except that Elsie hardly ever uses it - and his heart is full. The items represent the best parts of his life and his fingers, albeit slightly shaky from the detailed concentration of his recent writing, glance over the surface of each one in turn. There's the small doll ornament from Miss Sybbie, given last Christmas to both Carsons and immediately deemed too meaningful to be put away for eleven months of the year. Next to that resides a hand-painted photo frame that Becky made for them, now home to a small drawing she'd done of Elsie and Charles on their wedding day. He recalls his unfortunate mention of the drawing when he'd first met Becky, smiling now and how Elsie had seamlessly smoothed over his blunder and guided him into the wonderful relationship that he and Becky now share. And at the end, his favourite item of all: a small carving of a lapwing,* appearing black and white at first glance but with delicate threads of deep blue, a bit of green, and deep reds threaded throughout. His decades of perusing books in Lord Grantham's vast library brought him, years ago, to a volume about birds native to Britain, and the lapwing had jumped out at him: Scottish, sturdy, black and white in colour, with other details that reminded him of a certain someone's long, tightly-wrapped tresses and deep, ocean-blue eyes. He'd spent the next month whittling the small bird that now sat on their desk, had painted it in the wee hours when the rest of the Abbey had slept, and had kept it atop the small shelf in his bedroom there for years afterward … until they moved, that is, when he placed it out on the desk for all to see.

The flutter he feels as he picks up the small carving and brushes his finger over its head is a welcome one, a sign of how full his breast is of the love he feels for the woman the bird has always represented. It's followed by a powerful surge as he glances back at the other items on the desk: they represent his family, each of them a symbol of something - some _one_ \- he never thought he'd consider 'family' only a couple of years ago, all of whom have now taken up residence in his heart.

He hears the door open, then blow closed in the wind, and quickly puts the bird down and heads to the small corridor to greet the object of his musings. He's smiling when he reaches her and he eases off her coat and relieves her of the parcels she carries.

"That wind is brutal!" Elsie exclaims, tipping her head so that Charles may kiss her cheek. "Thank you, love," she adds as he hangs her coat.

"Your cheeks are frigid, Elsie. Where's your scarf?"

She turns to him with eyebrows raised and lips pursed, and he has the decency to look ashamed as she slowly reaches her hands up to her neck to unravel the very scarf in question.

"I preferred to _see_ my way home as opposed to covering my entire face," she replies, but there's love and humour behind the sarcasm and he's relieved. "What've you been up to all afternoon?"

"Oh, this and that," he hedges.

They take her shopping basket to the kitchen and begin to empty it, with Charles taking charge of the small roast and bringing it to their cutting block for some seasoning and to get it into a pan. He bends to get the fire in the stove going more strongly, and when he straightens back up and reaches for the pan, he catches his wife's gazing at him, her eyes alight with mischief.

"If Mrs. Patmore could see you now," she chuckles. "No more burnt potatoes and singed fingers for you, Charlie."

"I'll take that in the way I believe it was intended," he retorts. "I'd offer to help with those, but …"

"Oh, it's fine," she says, her voice a bit softer as she sees the way he clenches his fists and opens them again, repeatedly. "It's nothing but a few carrots, and I'm already half-finished."

Dinner goes into the oven, and Elsie brews a hot pot of tea for them both to carry to the parlour. She glances over at the desk in the corner, noting the envelope sitting in the middle of the blotter, and smiles at the way the bird is now turned. It's facing out the window now instead of into the room as she normally sets it when she dusts underneath it, and she realizes with a joyful jolt that he must have been cradling it in his hands again, as she's so often caught him doing over the past many months. She's never had the heart to tell him, though, feeling that this little tidbit about her husband's loving side is one that she wants to cradle in her breast and treasure for just a little while longer.

Tea poured, they sit together by the fire, enjoying a few moments of silence as Elsie winds down from her trip back to the cottage and warms up by her husband's side. Eventually, though, her curiosity gets the better of her.

"What's in the envelope?" she asks aloud.

Charles laughs, then places his teacup and saucer on the small table before them. "You've never been one to dance around things, Elsie. I love that about you."

And instead of replying further, he startles her - and himself a bit, if he's honest - by reaching for her. He rests his hands on either side of her head, his fingers slipping into her hair, and plants his lips firmly on hers. He can feel her gasp of surprise and he's careful not to move as she hurriedly places her own tea on the side table before laying her hands on his hips and pulling him close.

As his lips dance over hers, his heart swells once more, and he knows in that instant that there isn't a thing in this world he wouldn't do if she were only to ask it of him. It's a devotion unlike anything he's ever felt, and he knows it's something she returns in spades. He can feel it in the way her hands reach for him in the dark, in the way her steady fingers straighten his necktie or brush a lock of hair from his forehead, and he sees it in every look she ever gives him - even when she's cross.

They break apart, breathless, and he smiles, his happiness crinkling the corners of his eyes as his irises dance with firelight and merriment. He jumps up from the settee and retrieves the envelope that had sparked her curiosity, and places it in her lap as he resumes his seat, with his arm now securely wrapped around her shoulders.

"It's a gift," he murmurs, kissing her hair and inhaling its delicate scent.

"A gift?"

"For you," he clarifies unnecessarily. "It's … Well, it's something I'm certain you never expected, yet you'll remember the conversation that sparked it as soon as you open the thing."

She remains silent, contemplative, as she turns the envelope slowly in her hands. It has no markings, save for her name in his handwriting at the center, and it's sealed shut. The paper is new, too, so it isn't something he's had in his possession for very long at all. She squeezes it a bit, trying to judge from the thickness what it might contain, but she comes up empty.

"You may actually _open_ it, you know. It won't bite."

"You've given me no letter opener," she reminds him. "Surely you'd not have me tear into it without one? How very uncivilized!"

He blushes, both at the teasing and the fact that he knows it's warranted; years of grumbling at the servants' table about staff hastily - and improperly, according to him - opening their personal correspondence by simply ripping through the seal with their fingertips have not been lost on his wife.

He retrieves the opener from the desk and she slips it under the flap, cutting into her gift with a bit of trepidation, hopeful that she will, in fact, remember some conversation they've had in the past that triggered the purchase (she assumes it's a purchase, and not simply something he's written) of whatever it contains.

She slips five items from the envelope. Three of them match, and as she glances at them and reads the printed words in the center, her eyes widen. She gasps, part glee and part shock, and whips her head around to see his eyes staring expectantly at her.

"You haven't," she whispers. "Surely not, Charlie …"

He motions with his hand to the other two items - both folded pieces of paper - and she pries the first open. It's a letter from Becky, and she can see at a glance that it's addressed to Charles.

"May I read it?" she asks.

"Of course you may. That's why it's in the envelope," he says gently.

Elsie scans the body of the message quickly, realizing that this entire gift has been planned behind her back for the better part of a month. It stemmed from a conversation they all had at Christmastime, when she was presented with the photo album and Becky repeated what Elsie had said years ago about photographs ...

" _I miss the farm," Becky said sadly. "I miss the cows and my room. I miss the way the sun used to set behind our tree. Do you remember all that, Elsie?"_

" _I do, lass," Elsie replied from where she sat just behind her sister. She pulled the hairbrush gently through Becky's long, grey tresses, and bit down wistfully on her lip. "It wasn't always easy on the farm, but I do remember all of those things dearly."_

" _Whatever happened to it?" Charles asked. He was sitting in the chair in the corner of the room, watching the two sisters as they relived this precious bit of their childhood._

" _To the house? I'm not entirely sure," Elsie replied. "I sold it when Mam died, because I simply didn't have the means to watch over any tenants that might have taken it on. I'd be surprised if it were still standing, to tell the truth."_

" _So it may be_ _ **gone?**_ _" Becky whispered tearfully. "I didn't know that."_

" _Well, we don't really know, do we?" Elsie replied. "I've not been back since."_

 _They were silent a moment, until Becky nearly shouted, "I want to go back, Elsie! I want to see with my own eyes what it's like now. Is our house there? Maybe other little lassies are swinging on our swing now! Wouldn't that be marvelous?" She looked to Charles, all sadness washed from her sweet face. "Da made us a swing. He put it in the tree. Did Elsie ever tell you about it?"_

" _I'm not sure she did," he replied, and an idea began to form in his head. He looked down into his mug of cocoa so that his wife wouldn't notice …_

Elsie looks at the letter from Becky once more, notices the date and knows she's correct in all the assumptions she's made. She turns to Charles, her eyes full of emotion, and then back at the first three things she withdrew from the envelope - train tickets, dated a month from now.

"There's one more thing," he reminds her, his breath a whisper that flutters the loose strand of hair at her temple.

She unfolds the last bit of paper, written in a hand she knows so very, very well, and a tear spills over her eyelid as she reads:

 _As fair are thou, my bonnie lass,  
So deep in luve am I;  
And I will luve thee still, my Dear,  
Till a' the seas gang dry.**_

"It's not nearly ten thousand miles to Argyll," she chuckles, and his laughter is loud in the small room.

"No," he agrees. "It's not. And thank goodness for that, because I don't think we'd stand the trip."

Elsie is quiet as she refolds the papers methodically: tickets tucked into the poem, which is then placed inside the letter and back into the envelope from which it all came.

"This is the second trip you've given me - no, wait, it's the _third,_ including our honeymoon. This has to stop, Charlie."

"Why?"

She turns to him and sighs, slightly exasperated with him. "We can't just be gallivanting off whenever we have the urge to! It's not responsible, for one thing. And it's not _necessary,_ for another."

"We aren't _gallivanting_ anywhere," he replies. "We're taking Becky on a trip she wants to make - a trip I daresay you _both_ want to make. A trip _I_ want to make. What's wrong with that?"

She keeps herself from withdrawing the tickets from the envelope once again to look at the price written on each … but only just. She struggles for a moment to find a way to explain it to him, but there's no need; she can see the instant he's sorted it for himself.

"Oh, Elsie," he says, shifting his body and drawing her hands into his. "I've told you before to please not worry that we can't afford something when I can assure you that we _can._ Our investments have done well since the wedding, and we've that tidy sum you received upon retiring that won't even be touched for years. This is a small trip, we'll be staying in a modest bed and breakfast for two nights, and you and Becky can have me traipsing all over Argyll and the surrounding area as you show me every nook and cranny of where you grew up." He squeezes her fingers, then lifts them to his lips. "It's a gift to me, too," he adds. "You know everything there is to know about Downton, which is where I spent my life from age twelve onward, but I know next to nothing about where you come from."

He thinks back to the bird, glancing to where it sits on his desk, then back at Elsie. "I want to know everything about you," he says in a whisper.

"But … _why?_ That is to say, it's a lovely sentiment, but Argyll isn't anything like Yorkshire. What if you hate it?"

"I don't expect that it is one iota like Yorkshire," he replies. "Elsie, _you_ aren't like Yorkshire. Don't you see? It's what drew me to you all those years ago. Your appearance, your confidence, the way you aren't afraid of hard work and know the value of it, the way you _sound,_ even. Not that Yorkshire women don't have those qualities, because I'm sure many of them do, but not the way _you_ possess them. I'm well aware that you come from somewhere that is entirely foreign to me in many ways. And I'd like to see it, to experience it, to get to know that bit of you even more deeply that I already do."

Elsie thinks back to the days before she left the farm for the last time, back to the thinning crops and the broken barn boards, to the sight of her Mam whitewashing the fence and the happy cries of her sister playing off in the fields with the stray dog. She turns to her husband, ready to object once more, but the look in his eyes silences the words in her throat. It's a look of utter wonder, of complete honesty, and a hint of the fact that admitting all he's just said is difficult for him, but worth it because it's all for her, and all of her concerns about finances – concerns ingrained in her for decades upon decades – fade to the background.

"All right," she says instead, leaning up a bit and kissing him on the cheek. "We'll go."

 _tbc_

* * *

 ** _*The lapwing is a bird native to Scotland. More information can be found at wild (dash) ._**

 ** _**From "A Red, Red Rose," by Robert Burns. I know it's used to death in Chelsie fanfic, but it's really the only love poem out there unless you really, REALLY like haggis._**


	7. Shattered

**A/N: A bit of angst in this one. T/W for background character death. Please forgive any errors contained within, as I was in a bit of a hurry to finally post this (well behind schedule).**  
 **Thanks to all of you for your tremendous support for this fic. I promise to get you to Argyll soon. xx**

 **CSotA**

* * *

Elsie is pulling the last of their clothing from the line in the kitchen when she hears the knocking on the door. Charles has gone into the village for a few last-minute items at the food market, just enough to get them through the next two days before they leave for Argyll, and she can tell immediately that the person on the doorstep is definitely not her husband. The knocks were too many and too soft … and the door isn't even locked to begin with.

Grateful to have gotten their underclothes into the basket prior to having to let someone in, Elsie leaves the basket in the corner and hurries through the parlor and to the front door, where the knocking has recommenced with more gusto than before. She pulls it open swiftly, and her heart thuds when she sees who the knocker is, the condition he appears to be in, and the woman standing behind him.

"Hello, Mr. Branson … Lady Mary. Please do come in," she manages, stepping aside and whisking them in from the briskness of the afternoon. "Whatever has happened?" She worries for Charlie for a moment, that perhaps he took a turn in town and somehow the family was notified before she was. But that makes no sense, and her mind then turns to Miss Sybbie, Master George … Tom Branson tries for a smile, but it's forced and Elsie knows it; Lady Mary, meanwhile, seems paler than usual and her eyes are rimmed with redness. It's the last bit that tells Elsie _precisely_ what their visit is regarding. To be honest, she's surprised the younger woman was able to make the trip to the cottage, but she's certain that she now knows the reason behind it.

"I'm afraid Charles isn't at home," Elsie says, and at her insistence they all sit in the parlour. Her use of his Christian name is intentional, a way of establishing the familiarity that she's certain Lady Mary has come here seeking out - a bridge of comfort.

"She's gone," Tom says without preface, knowing Elsie well enough by now to realize she's figured it out. "About an hour ago."

Elsie nods, and she feels a lump in her throat that she'd never have expected to be there. It's been a week since the Dowager Countess had fallen ill. Pneumonia, like the strain Becky had, Elsie thinks. They had been told by Dr. Clarkson that she may very well die from it, and he'd given her a week or so to turn it around. If she didn't manage to, he'd said, then she'd likely not survive the illness. That had been two days ago, so while Elsie is surprised that the woman slipped away as quickly as she did, the entire event was not entirely unexpected.

She clasps her hands in her lap, glancing at the door and hoping Charles would walk through, even though a look to the clock on the mantle reminded her that he'd not be home for close to another hour yet. She knows the others will wait for him, will want to tell him in person - it's why they're here, after all, because Charles's relationship with the Dowager over the past many decades deserved more than a simple telephone call. That it was Lady Mary who arrived to pass along the news isn't a great surprise, either. She's here for a bit of bolstering and comfort from her steadfast supporter, and Elsie can hardly begrudge her that. She just isn't sure her Charles will be able to give it. Not this time. He'd refused to accept the inevitable, insisting that the Dowager would be fine.

' _She always makes it through,'_ he'd said. _'I see no reason why this time will be different.'_

"I'll make some tea," Elsie says, and she leaves them in her living room to go and put together a tray. She makes a mental note to call Becky's home as soon as possible. Becky won't be happy about it, but their trip will most definitely have to be postponed.

 **oOoOoOo**

The morning of the funeral is warmer, and the sun is shining brightly. Elsie and Charles have danced around the entire topic of the Dowager's passing - he didn't want to talk about it at all, and she didn't really press him to try. She brought it up only once but made no headway, and so she's steeling herself for the condition she thinks he'll be in upon their return home after the funeral and reception.

"Becky called when you were in the bath," she tells Charles as he's doing up his necktie. "She said she loves you and asked me to give you a kiss on the cheek, and she wanted to confirm that we'll see her in a week."

"We certainly will," Charlie replies with a smile, and he leans down for his kiss, which his wife dutifully delivers to his cheek. "We could have gone tomorrow, if you'd agreed."

Elsie steps away and busies herself with straightening the corner of the bed's counterpane. "I stand by my original opinion, Charlie. It'd have been too soon. Better to have a few days to grieve."

He finishes with the tie and lays his hands on her hips as he slips behind her and toward the bedroom door, not bothering to reply.

She lets him go, cognizant of the time and the fact that, any minute now, the driver from the Abbey will arrive to bring them to the funeral. While they won't be riding with the family - an option which neither of them would ever have accepted had it been offered - they've been told that the family would like them seated just behind them in church, in the third pew, and that they'll be part of the motorcade to the chapel and back again after the services are over. Charles had initially wished to decline all of it, but Elsie had shushed him. It was another sign of the high esteem in which the Dowager Countess had held the butler, and Elsie helped him to see that refusal would have been insulting.

The ride to the church is silent, with Charles spending most of it looking out the window at the passing trees and small houses. Elsie, not content to let him completely withdraw into his labyrinth of a mind, lays her hand upon his thigh just behind where his own fingers rest. His hands are trembling slightly, but her touch soothes him as it so often does, and just as the car pulls up beside the chapel, he gives her a sad smile.

They take their seats as instructed, and the service progresses. It's hardly the first time they've been at a funeral together, but it's the first time they've been seated with the family for anything. Elsie expects to be uncomfortable, and for Charles to be fidgeting the entire time, but she's shocked on both accounts. She's seated beside Isobel Merton, and when Elsie notices that the woman's husband seems oblivious to the comfort his wife so desperately needs, she reaches out tentatively and squeezes her hand. Isobel turns to her and nods her thanks, unable to speak. Elsie then glances at Charles, but his eyes are fully trained on the casket at the front of the aisle, and she can tell simply by how he's looking at it that he's miles away in his mind. She can almost _feel_ the weight of his thoughts. He's cracking, she can see it, and it's that even more than the funeral that makes her heart heavy. She's consumed with sadness for her husband, for the ache she knows he's trying to hide.

The graveside service is blessedly short, and when the Carsons arrive at the Abbey afterward for the reception, they're greeted by Daisy. Charles had sat by the family in church, had accepted being transported about by the family's motor, but he drew the line at entering through the front door.

"Hello, Mrs. Carson. Mr. Carson," Daisy says, taking their coats. "I'll hang these for you. Everyone is already upstairs, I think."

"Is there anything you need?" Elsie can't help but ask.

But Daisy just shakes her head. "All under control. It's good to see you both, although we're so sorry it had to be for something like this."

Elsie squeezes the girl's arm, then takes Charlie's hand and leads the way upstairs. They're greeted once again by the family and spend about half an hour chatting to both family and staff alike, with several of the guests stopping by to say hello as well. While the new butler and housekeeper are keeping Downton running as smoothly as it always has, its former heads of staff are missed by many, and Elsie is touched that so many people come over to deliver greetings and kind wishes to them both.

It is much later when Lady Mary sidles up to Charles, whispering something in his ear, and Elsie nods at his inquisitive, silent look before watching him disappear with the Dowager's eldest granddaughter. They leave the room and Elsie peeks through the doorway, watching as Lady Mary leads Charles into the library. She's curious, but not concerned, and knows she'll get the full story later.

When they emerge from the library ten minutes later, Charles has something she can't quite identify clutched tightly in his hand, part of it seemingly tucked up his sleeve. Elsie has stayed by the door and she smiles as he joins her, but her smile disappears quickly when she sees the dampness on his face.

"I think it's time for us to go," she says in a murmur. "I've already said our goodbyes while you were in with Lady Mary."

Charles only nods, and Elsie takes his arm and leads him to get their coats, then out to where the car is waiting to whisk them back to the cottage. It's been a long day, and Elsie needs to get her husband home, fed, and comforted.

 **oOoOoOo**

Charles climbs into bed after his wife settles herself. She's propped up extra pillows to rest against, and he lays his head on her chest, finally willing - in the semi-darkness and quiet of his most cherished place on earth, their _home_ \- to let his tears fall. His heart shatters at last, the force of it racking his body with sobs, the tears large and copious and soaking through the front of his wife's nightgown. Elsie, for her part, remains silent, her hands soothing him by gently rubbing his shoulder and carding through the hair at his temple, as she allows him to openly grieve.

"It's all right, Charlie," she murmurs after a while, and she wipes at a few of her own tears before returning her hand to his shoulder. "She's at peace now."

He nods, unable to speak, and Elsie glances over at their bureau. Sitting atop it, at the center, is a beautiful fan, opened and on display. It's not unfamiliar, but Elsie is still completely stunned that it's in her home at all. Years ago, she gleaned enough of what was happening between the Dowager and Prince Kuragin to have put together most of the pieces, and one night - quite late - she'd mustered up the courage to ask Charles about it. He'd answered the questions he was able to answer, swearing her to secrecy; it had been wholly unnecessary, however, for Elsie had known immediately that she'd be taking _that_ particular story to the grave. What she'd found curious then was how Charles had not only known of the transgression but seemed to have _supported_ it. She never did ask why, and she supposes now it doesn't even matter.

Charles's sobs eventually subside, and true to form, he apologizes to his wife for them. She, in turn, shushes him.

"It's all right," she says again. "You're supposed to grieve when you lose someone so close to you. It's unhealthy not to." Her mind catches on the words, remembering something. "They _are_ your family, Charlie. I accepted _that_ long ago."

He sits up, facing her, and she scoots up and back against the headboard and takes his hand in hers.

" _You're_ my family," he whispers, and more tears escape. "Thank you for being here for me. Silently, supportive, knowing I wasn't ready to accept or discuss this."

Her thumb brushes the back of his hand.

"I always have been," she whispers back. "Here for you. Your family, now, but not your _only_ family. The fan now sitting on my dresser is proof enough of that."

"I couldn't believe when Lady Mary handed that to me," he admits. "I refused to take it, but she said her grandmother insisted … that she'd _willed_ it to me."

Elsie looks over at the fan once again, seeing now that she's sat up straighter the note tucked underneath it, the one Charles had withdrawn from his coat pocket when they got home earlier that night.

"And the note?" She'd not asked before, but wants to know.

"You're welcome to read it, you know," Charles says with a bit of a smile. "She mentions you, actually. Says you're good for me."

"Well, she _was_ ill when she wrote it," Elsie teases gently, but Charles shakes his head.

"She always thought highly of you, Elsie. Very highly. She had a sense that you didn't have the overwhelming love for them all that I did - that I _do_ \- but she felt comfortable in how we ran the household, and that her family was often left in the care of _your_ very capable hands."

He looks down at his own hands, rendered rather _in_ capable, and laughs harshly. "How ironic."

"Don't," she chides, leaning forward and tugging on his arms. "Lie down with me, Charlie. We've had a long day, and I think we could both use a cuddle."

He obeys, drawing her into his arms this time and placing a few gentle kisses to her lips before she tucks in and rests her head over his heart.

"Thank you," he whispers.

"For what?"

His hand trails up and down her bare arm, beginning to lull her to sleep.

"For always knowing how to put me back together when I need you."

"That's love, Charlie," she says, yawning.

He sighs. "Indeed, it is."

 _tbc_


	8. Silk

**A/N: I'm so sorry. I have no idea what happened to this chapter. This was … well, not where it was supposed to end up. Although given where I almost went with the** _ **last**_ **chapter, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised.**

 **Thanks to all of you for your lovely reviews, and a special shout-out to the guest reviewers to whom I cannot personally respond. I truly appreciate all of your kind words. I'm checking out for a couple months, except for "The Cursed Butler," which is written and will continue to be published under Hogwarts Duo's account. See you all for the Christmas Special for this unofficialdas8.**

 **xxx,** **  
**

 **CSotA**

* * *

It's just before dinnertime, but Elsie is fast asleep on the settee. Charles is sitting and staring at her, unable to look away. Her face is more peaceful than he's seen it in quite a while. She's relaxed, content, and - if the upward turn of her lips is any indication - she's dreaming about something quite pleasant, indeed. He hates to wake her, but he knows she'll be furious if dinner overcooks simply because he couldn't tear his eyes away from her sleeping form long enough to retrieve it from the oven.

His tremor is quiet today, which is a godsend after going through the Dowager's funeral and the days following it. Anxiety and worry usually make him worse, but today things seem to be back to normal. He'd almost forgotten what _normal_ was like, used to take it for granted, but now each day that's tremor-free that is a gift.

It's a gift which Charles uses to his advantage now, taking dinner from the oven and setting a meticulous table.

"I'm sorry I fell asleep," comes Elsie's tired voice from the kitchen doorway.

Charles approaches his wife, drawing her into his arms and placing a kiss to her forehead.

"I think I can forgive you," he says gently. "You haven't been sleeping well at night."

"Oh, I've kept you up, haven't I?" she worries, laying a hand on his arm. "I wish you'd said; I'd have gone into the guest room."

But Charles smiles and shakes his head. "Don't worry about it. You haven't."

"You're still a horrible liar, Charles Carson."

He laughs, happy that her little nap did her some good, and as Elsie cuts up the roasted chicken, Charles gets the veg plated and the wine poured.

"To us," he says, raising his glass toward his wife, and she clinks hers to his.

"To us," she replies, and she leans over for a kiss, which her husband gladly provides.

They review the details of their trip to Argyll over dinner. It's easy conversation, and Elsie is able to get excited all over again about seeing Becky. She's decidedly less excited about going back to visit her childhood home, but that's where her husband's glee kicks in.

"Young Elsie Hughes," he says with wonder. "Running through the fields with long, dark pigtails trailing behind her, her laughter carrying across the land."

"Struggling to fit in and not succeeding," she reminds him. "Loud, and outspoken."

"Hmph," is his reply, and he refills their wine. "Were you truly that unhappy, love?"

She ponders his question; he loves this about her, the quiet reflective nature when she knows he wants an honest, thoughtful reply to something.

"I loved my family, but Argyll wasn't the place for me." She smiles brilliantly at him. "Downton Village worked out much better, in my opinion."

He flicks his eyebrows up before turning his attention back to his dinner plate. "Just so." There's a slight pink hue to his cheeks, and Elsie notes a bit of pride on his face - to which she feels he's more than entitled.

Elsie cleans up after dinner while Charles heads upstairs, retrieving his book from the bedside table. When he returns to the parlour with it, he adds a small log to the fire before taking his place on the settee. She joins him after several minutes, a small bundle in her hand.

"You'll finish that tonight?" he asks, nodding at the fabric she's holding.

"Mm, I think so. I don't want it hanging over my head the night before we head up."

Her fingers trail over the fabric as she unwinds it. It's a precious bit of material, one she's held onto for many years, a gift from her Mam - a scarf, but one that she's never had the occasion to wear. It isn't that it's formal or extravagant, but simply that the coloring of the fabric itself - a bright, bold red - would only have lent itself to a Christmastime fete, and Elsie simply never attended anything like that in her years as housekeeper. She'd thought to wear it once when she was younger, but … no. She smiles as she recalls her Mam dancing about the farmhouse with it tied around her hair, singing some tune or other as her Da looked on.

"This must be sixty years old, at least," she says quietly.

Charles reaches over and pats her thigh gently. "And you're making it even more valuable now, I'd wager."

She turns to him and smiles. "I hope so. I hope _Becky_ thinks so."

He nods, returning to his book, and Elsie threads her needle. She's repairing the fraying on the edge of the scarf with some lovely silk thread that Charles picked up for her in the village on their last shopping trip, and she's added a few new embroidered details for Becky's benefit. She smiles every time she recalls the day they procured the thread, particularly the look of near horror as she dragged Charles into the haberdashery. He's so attentive when they're tucked away in their love nest, so sweet and easygoing in a way she rarely saw during their days at the Abbey, and she sometimes forgets that his behavior at home doesn't always transfer to the outside world. It's the bit of him that only she gets to see, really.

They spend a silent half hour on their tasks; Charles finishes his book and lays it on the side table, then watches as his wife struggles with a bit of floral embellishment where she's sewing. He can see that she's nearly done, and praises her progress.

"I think my eyes are tired," she replies, rubbing them.

"Here, Els. Try these." He picks up his reading specs and hands them over to her.

The look on her face is a priceless mixture of surprise and horror.

"Surely not. I don't think I need eyeglasses, Charlie. I'm not that far gone yet!"

His eyebrows flick upward. "Oh, really? Well, try them. See how you do. I bet they help …"

She chews the inside of her lip, contemplating. "Fine," she decides, taking them from him and trying them on. "Oh … they're strange, though, aren't they?"

"You get used to it," he says with a smirk.

"Says the man who refuses to let anyone else see them on his face," she reminds him.

Elsie picks up the needle once again, the filament of silk thread trailing over the scarf, and she gasps softly.

"See?" he says gently, leaning over and kissing her cheek. "Sometimes - rarely, I'll admit, but sometimes - I actually have a good idea."

The light in the room glints off of Elsie's wedding band, and she nods as she draws the needle through the fabric.

"Yes. _Sometimes."_

 **oOoOoOoOo**

Becky's hand is clasped tightly in Elsie's as the two look out the train window at the scenery. Charles sits across from them in the carriage, marveling at the similarities and differences between the sisters.

It takes a moment before Elsie notices his attention, and she furrows her brow in question, but he just shakes his head.

 _What?_

 _Nothing._

Becky is oblivious to this exchange, so intent is she on her running commentary about the landscape's livestock.

"Sheep!" she utters for the third time, and Elsie pats her hand fondly.

"What kind?" she asks, and Becky looks to her, eyes bright.

"Cheviot," Becky replies with a nod. "But I like the Blackface better. They're cuter."

Elsie chuckles at that. "Well, that's the important bit."

Charles watches on with interest, his great mind turning this new information over and adding it to the part of his thinking that's reserved for his sister-in-law. She's still a mystery to him in so many ways, a jigsaw that he's been trying to put together since he first learned of her existence. He'd expected something almost fearful when Elsie first dropped the bombshell that she did, indeed, have a sister - one that she evidently felt the need to keep from him for decades. It had made him think Becky might be disfigured as well as simply child-like, or that perhaps she was non-verbal, spending her days drooling in a corner of some hospital. When Elsie had corrected those misinterpretations, he'd been relieved - and then nervous anew at the thought of _interacting_ with the woman one day, the thought that he'd have to speak to her and listen to her. His mind had tumbled into fears about whether or not she'd be comprehensible, or whether he could come up with something simple enough to discuss that would hold her attention. It was only upon meeting her that the pieces had finally settled into a more complete picture. He now thinks of her simply as a woman with a childlike innocence … and, more recently, as a woman whose health is rapidly declining. The news from the home when they'd called prior to arriving hadn't been good, and he knows this trip – while originally supported – was discouraged by her doctors.

As he examines her features now, Charles notices that Becky has aged drastically since they last saw her at Christmastime. The pneumonia weakened her system, and her overall demeanor is subdued from its typical ebullient nature. The trip to Argyll seems to have perked her up a bit, but her low stamina has been quite noticeable since they picked her up. He recalculates a bit the plan he and Elsie had formulated, cancelling a few things in his mind and making a mental note to place the appropriate telephone calls, knowing Elsie won't want to press Becky into a situation that would only make her ill once again.

Becky's voice startles him when she speaks again, and her words cause a small amount of fear to cascade through his heart.

"The doctor says this will be my last trip, Elsie, so we'd better make it a good one."

Charles catches his wife's gaze, the fear in his own face mirrored in hers, and it crushes him to see the exact moment her fear tumbles into sorrow. It's a slight dimming in her eyes, so faint that it's gone in a flash, and he sees her swallow the lump he knows is in her throat.

"Well, I think we can manage that," Elsie tells her sister, and she leans over and rests her head on Becky's for the remainder of the ride.

Charles adds every single one of the cancelled activities back into his mental itinerary.

When the train arrives, Charles helps the ladies to the platform. He's arranged for a car to pick them up just outside the station gate, and it takes just under an hour before they're settled into the inn.

Becky needs to take a nap, and so Elsie gets her settled into bed. She pulls the blanket up to her sister's chin, then drops a kiss to her forehead.

"You rest now, love, and then we'll have a nice dinner out this evening, hm?"

"And see the farm?" Becky asks.

"First thing Wednesday," Elsie reminds her. She leaves the door to the sitting room ajar, then joins her husband where he stands looking out the window at the quiet street below. She wraps her arms around him from behind, resting her cheek to his chest, and he gently rubs up and down her forearms.

"She'll sleep about an hour," she says, and he nods.

"Elsie?"

"Don't you dare, Charlie. Please. Just … not now."

He nods, feels a slight shudder from her body, and stills his hands on her arms. He gives a gentle squeeze, and they stand there for a long, silent while, grateful to have one another for comfort.

 **oOoOoOoOo**

Their days in Argyll are lovely, and Becky's spirits remain high the entire time. The only snag they run into is on the first night in the restaurant, when Becky doesn't seem to find anything on the menu that will suit her tastes. Fortunately, Charles is able to amend that with a few short instructions to their waiter, asking for separate plates for one meal and for the cabbage to be left off entirely.

It's on the third and last day that they visit the old farm. Charles arranges in town for a driver to bring them out, and the man looks curiously at Elsie.

"The old Hughes farm, is it?" he asks gently, and she nods.

"Well, the MacDonnell farm now," she replies.

"Aye, but t'were always Daniel Hughes's place to me."

Elsie sees the look on Becky's face, and she knows what's coming and tries not to cringe.

"He was my Granddad!" Becky shouts.

But the driver exceeds Elsie's expectations, smiling at Becky and nodding slowly.

"He was a kind man, Ms. Hughes," he says fondly. "Now, how about you settle in and we'll head there now?"

Charles pulls the man aside after the women climb into the car. "Is it still standing?" he asks quietly. He'd planned to remain silent, but the thought of Becky arriving and seeing nothing familiar at all frightens him.

"Aye, it is," the man replies kindly. "A bit worse for the wear, and uninhabited since Mrs. MacDonnell passed last year. But it's there, all right."

"Good."

 **oOoOoOoOo**

The Carsons stand closely together as they watch Becky tread carefully over the land that used to belong to the Hughes family. She doesn't speak, which surprises them both, but she takes her time walking about. Elsie warned her away from the porch steps, which appear to be crumbling before their very eyes, but Becky was given free rein to roam within the boundaries of the property. Elsie and Charles keep about fifteen or so paces behind her, enabling them to have some quiet conversation and not be overheard.

"I didn't realize you'd had pets," Charles is saying. They've just gone through the small 'cemetery' in the back of the house, and he'd seen the small markers set in the ground.

"Oh, yes," Elsie replies wistfully. "I wondered if _she'd_ remember. She wanted to bury them all, poor dear, but Mam drew the line after the cats and the dog." She chuckles. "Da told Becky once that if she wanted to bury the cow, _she_ could dig the hole. She gave up after an hour and a half."

"I believe it! I'm surprised she wasn't cross."

"Well, she was irritated," Elsie replies, leaning into his side a bit and hugging his arm to her, "but it was a good lesson. She slept well that night, too."

They watch as Becky stops by the great oak tree, stopping and gazing up at the branches. Her brow is furrowed, and Elsie and Charles approach her.

"What is it?" Charles asks.

Becky looks over at them, tears in her eyes. "They took it, Elsie. They took my swing."

Elsie holds her arms open and Becky dives into her sister's embrace.

"I think the weather likely took that ages ago," Elsie says, comforting her.

Charles peers up at the branches, then smiles when he spies what he's looking for.

"Here, Becky … look."

She turns and sees him pointing at one of the branches, and she gasps when she spies what he's seen.

"There! Elsie, look!"

The rope from their swing, or what's left of it, is embedded in the tree's bark. Threads are blowing about in the wind, and it's clear that age and weather have, indeed, been responsible for its condition.

"It must have broken," Elsie says gently. "But it appears they didn't take it down. Look at the ends of the rope, Becky. Do you see how they're uneven and frayed? No one cut your swing down, love. It simply fell down when it got too old."

"I want to go home," Becky announces suddenly. "It's cold out, and I'm very tired."

"Then that's what we'll do," Charles tells her, and he removes his coat. "Here. Wrap this around yourself. It's very warm from my being inside of it."

"Ohh," Becky murmurs. "Thank you. But won't you be cold?"

"I'll be fine, don't you worry," he replies, tapping her on the nose.

Elsie smiles at him, shaking her head. She knows he's going to be freezing in about two minutes, and she knows there's nothing on earth that will convince him to take his coat back from Becky.

"Let's hurry up," she encourages them.

The driver, who'd been kind enough to wait, loads them in the car, fetching a wool blanket from under the seat and hands it to Charles, who takes it with a grateful nod.

 **oOoOoOoOo**

They are tucked back into their suite at the inn, cocoa in hand courtesy of room service, when Elsie hands a wrapped box to Becky. She watches as Becky's face lights up with glee, and Charles deftly slips the mug from Becky's hand so that she can open the gift.

They smile as Becky tears into the paper and pries the lid off the box, and then as she looks confused while examining the scarf within, as if she's trying to grasp onto something. She opens her mouth to speak, but then closes it again. Charles is fascinated as he watches her, and he can see the change in her expression when she finally finds what she's looking for.

"This was Mam's," Becky declares. "But … different."

"Very good, Becky," Elsie praises her.

"Why do you have it?"

Elsie wasn't expecting _that_ question. "Because she gave it to me," she replies. "A very long time ago."

 _When she died,_ she adds silently, but there's no way she can say that to her sister.

"I remember this," Becky whispers. "She would dance with us."

Elsie gets off the sofa and takes the scarf from the box.

"Sheep!" Becky shouts suddenly. "You put a sheep on it!"

Becky snatches the scarf from Elsie's hands, running her fingers over the part where Elsie had repaired the small tear and added the gentle silk embroidery: the border, now decorated with tiny, delicate flowers … and a small sheep standing amongst them.

"I did," Elsie says. "Because it's _yours_ now."

She takes the scarf gently from Becky and ties Becky's hair up in it with a flourish.

"There," she declares. "Just like Mam."

Charles stands up and extends his hand to Becky. "May I have this dance?"

Becky laughs heartily, standing up and nodding.

"You may."

Elsie hums a tune, and watches fondly as they waltz around the room, stopping once because Becky begins coughing but starting up once again, at Becky's insistence, after she recovers.

When Elsie's made her way through not one but two songs, she insists that Becky rest once again.

"I know you're tired," Elsie says, and Becky agrees, pulling the scarf from her hair.

"Thank you for this," she says. "I'll make sure you get it back when I'm gone."

It's such a sudden, shocking thing to say, and Elsie and Charles both look dumbfounded at her.

"Becky," Elsie finally manages, "that's -"

"- very thoughtful," Charles interrupts meaningfully, laying a hand on his wife's back. "Very thoughtful of you, indeed."

Elsie nods her agreement, taking the scarf from her sister's hands.

"But for now, it's yours," she clarifies. "Come on. Let's get you ready for bed."

Charles tidies up from the gift opening and their hasty return to the rooms, hanging coats and scarves and disposing of trash. He smiles when he hears the sisters' voices coming from Becky's small room, and he nips into the bathroom to change into his own pyjamas while Elsie tucks Becky in.

"I am so tired," Becky yawns, and Charles feels his heart tighten. He knows precisely what she means, even if Becky herself doesn't realize it, and he knows what it's doing to his wife. She's tired from the effort it's taking her to get through each day. Her health is failing, and she knows it, and it was recently enough that she visited them in Downton that she knows how she feels different now, and that she doesn't like it one bit. He can only guess at what the doctors have said, or what Becky has overheard. It's another click of the puzzle pieces shifting slightly as he realizes that Becky seems to have trouble understanding the world, but occasionally she's much more observant and astute than they think. That she accepts it all with such blunt candor is perhaps the bit that makes him most uncomfortable, and he wonders if it's a blessing or a curse for her to see the world in that way.

Back in their own bedroom, Charles turns the blankets down and lights the two candles on the mantle, knowing Elsie will appreciate the soft light as opposed to the glare from the lamps. He gets into bed, but it's quite a while before his wife joins him. He's heard her singing Becky to sleep and then going through her own preparations in the bath, and when she finally enters their bedroom and closes the door behind herself, he's ready.

"Come here," he whispers, patting the mattress beside himself.

Elsie wordlessly discards her dress and shift on the chair beside the bed, dons a nightie, and crawls over to where her husband is waiting. She lies down on her side, facing him, and he scoops her up and wraps himself around her as she breaks down in his arms.

"This will be the last time we see her," she sobs. "It's always been my greatest worry, Charles. Losing her. It's just ..."

He clings more tightly to her, kissing her head repeatedly as his heart breaks in harmony with hers.

"I know," comes his whispered reply.

 _tbc_

* * *

 **I'm so sorry ... I promise a mostly happy and fluffy Christmas chapter. :)**


	9. Future: Christmas Special

**I swear it's a happy ending. Bear with me. X**

* * *

 _ **23 December**_

The wind whips through the village, a harbinger of the storm that is to befall them come Christmas Day. Elsie has been able to feel it coming in her bones; she can smell it in the air, and her suspicions were confirmed just that morning when Charles noticed a worsening of his palsy, something they've come to realize happens when the temperatures and moisture in the air exhibit drastic changes. It's a day to spend indoors rather than out, to be by the fire wrapping gifts, sipping mulled wine, and stealing kisses before the tree. And those things will happen … later.

Charles turns slightly to look at his wife as they stand in the cold. Her hat is pinned carefully, yet wisps of her hair - slightly more grey recently, he's noticed - are flying about her pink cheeks. She's flushed from the cold, although he made sure they were both wrapped tightly in scarves and their warm coats.

And then he sees the tears begin to fall, sees her lips moving, her silent prayer being offered up. He slips his hand from one glove and reaches over to brush at her tears, but she shakes her head and he withdraws and replaces the glove. She's right to deny him his wish to curb her sorrow and he knows it, remembers when it was fresh and sharp and needed to come out rather than be bottled up inside of her.

A few tears land on Elsie's scarf as she leans forward and places the wreath upon Becky's grave. She sets it just right, with housekeeper-like precision, then steps back to examine it. Charles had fashioned a hook for the top of the stone from some heavy wire, and it seems to be doing the trick and keeping the wreath from blowing away. Elsie feels a small swell in her heart when she remembers Becky's wish to be buried here, close to Elsie and Charles, and how their small cottage and Becky's brief visits to it had filled the woman with a sense of _home_ that, despite all her friends and the love and care she'd received there, had been missing at the facility where she lived.

With a tilt of her head, Elsie moves to adjust the bow she'd affixed to the wreath before standing again, sighing in relief when she feels her husband's hand upon the small of her back. She'd rather feel him leaning up against her fully, feel his arms wrap her up in his love and protection, but it's too public a place for either of them to end up comfortable like _that._ Still … Elsie Carson has come to understand quite a few things over the past several months, and the one at the forefront of her mind now is that life is short, and that opportunities for happiness need to be grasped and held onto tightly and not allowed to slip away as they so often do.

She turns then, sees that her dear Charlie has also allowed his tears to begin falling, a clear sign of the deep affection he had for his sister-in-law, and in a split second Elsie's lips are upon his chin, kissing one of them away.

"I love you, Charlie," she whispers. "And I love how you loved her."

He tips his head down, touches his forehead to his wife's, and a soft sigh escapes his mouth as the small place inside of his heart - the small, deep-down spot where he'd always kept Becky tucked safely away - cracks again.

Elsie feels his nod against her head, and they stand like that for a while, silently loving one another as the wind continues to blow with growing fury between the headstones of the cemetery at the village church.

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _24 December_**

"I just don't know how it got there, Charles."

Elsie is bustling about the kitchen, and Charles reaches for her waist to stop her for a moment so that he can brush the distracting (yet _adorably_ distracting) spot of flour from the tip of her nose.

"It's a veritable Christmas miracle," he returns with a smile and a twinkle in his eye.

"Well, I know it wasn't _you._ You were with me always, including when we found it."

With the sky grey and the snow due to arrive that evening, Elsie and Charles had only stopped briefly by Becky's grave after church services, but halfway from the church door to the stone itself, Elsie saw the bright red of the flowers that had been tucked into the wreath: a small, tightly-wrapped bouquet with a silver bow. After a quick word with Charles, she reached for the flowers and tucked them into her handbag.

And now they sit in a small vase by the aga, where Elsie keeps catching glimpses of them as she bakes.

"But no one else _knew_ her," she mutters, patting down the shortbread dough. "She didn't mean anything to anyone in Downton. Not really."

"She meant something to you," Charles clarifies, reaching around her quickly to nick a piece of the dough before popping it into his mouth. "And _you_ mean a great deal to half the town, I think."

"Oh, hush," she chides, swatting at his hand when it creeps toward the dough once again. "And enough! If you keep at it, I'll have to make another batch!"

"Which means more biscuits, so I see no problem."

She opens her mouth to reply but ends up biting away laughter when she sees the look on his face: innocence mixed with a hint of mischief, peeking out from underneath his prodigious eyebrows.

"No," she says with a giggle, "I'm sure you don't."

Charles puts his hands up in surrender, backing away and reaching for the teapot, which he uses to refill her cup and his. "Are we all ready for tomorrow, then?"

"I think so." She reaches for the fork and pricks the dough before placing it in the oven to cook. "We don't need to prepare the goose, since Beryl is bringing that. The vegetables are washed and ready to be cooked tomorrow, and this is the last of the biscuits." She looks up at him with a bit of reservation. "It won't be fancy …"

"But it will be _ours,_ as we planned."

She nods, grateful. "It will be."

She lifts the cup to her lips as he adds, "I've asked Lady Mary to stop by," and she almost chokes on her tea.

"Surely you haven't, Charles. I'm certain she'll be busy with her family. She won't want to pop in here!" _She'd better not want to pop in here,_ she adds silently, but then pinches herself for the selfish thought. Lady Mary has been a good support to Charles since his retirement, and Elsie would do well to remember the high regard that the younger woman has for him. It has kept him going through some of the more difficult patches, Elsie knows.

"I did, but I agree with you that it's unlikely she will."

Elsie looks up at him, her lips slightly pursed. "She wouldn't be comfortable if she did. With us, the Bateses, Beryl, and Daisy? I think she'd feel a bit out of place."

"Well, it appears Master George and Miss Sybbie are thick as thieves," he replies. "So if Mr. Branson wants to come around and wish us a Happy Christmas, I think they'd all come together."

She hums, thoughtful. "Good point."

She reaches for the butter and sugar, then looks over at him, exasperated.

"Go and find me two small boxes upstairs in the spare bedroom, would you please? If the children are popping in, they're going to need their own biscuits." Elsie shakes her head as he turns and walks away, her hands already adding one more measure of ingredients to the bowl.

She sees the red flowers from the corner of her eye again, and her brow furrows. She isn't sure _why_ it matters where they came from … but it does.

 **oOoOoOo**

Much later, the Christmas Eve snow is falling heavily outside, but it goes unnoticed inside the Carsons' bedroom.

Elsie shivers as her husband unbuttons her blouse slowly, his hands blessedly still as he trails his hand off her shoulder and down to her wrist before leaning down to brush his lips over her collarbone.

"All right?" he whispers at the curve of her ear, and she swallows and nods.

Elsie used to think they'd never get to the point where intimacy between them would be entirely comfortable, but after several months of marriage, things seemed to take a turn. Shy encounters were traded for slightly bolder actions, and she quickly learned that her husband - this man who'd always been hiding deep, deep down inside of the stoic butler - seemed to have some innate sense of romance …

… and seduction.

Several tantalizing moments later, clothing completely discarded, they climb upon the bed. His lips trail across her chest, stopping briefly on her scar the way they often do, and then back to that sweet spot just below her left ear.

"Charlie," she whispers, anticipating what he's planning as his kisses move down her torso again. "Stay up here with me tonight. Please?"

"Of course." He shifts their bodies so that they're lying facing one another, and she hears his sharp intake of breath as her short fingernails gently graze over his hip bone and down across his belly. They aren't young, he knows only too well, but they're comfortable with one another now, and any shame he'd once had when they married about the physical state of his body have long since been extinguished. His reactions to his wife's attentions are evident, as is her pleasure every time they're together in this way. While neither of them can find the words to _discuss_ their intimacies well with one another, they've most certainly found other ways to communicate their mutual pleasure.

Elsie reaches up and buries her fingers in his thick hair, pulling him down for a long, deep kiss. The feel of her nails scratching gently at his scalp only excites him further, and he can feel her smile against his mouth. It's been well over two weeks since they've taken this time for themselves, exhaustion from the holidays having set in like never before despite the change in their employment.

"Charlie," she murmurs, her hands slipping down to his hips and pulling him closer.

He shifts slightly as she drapes her leg over his, and his sigh of pleasure as they come together is completely drowned out by a deep moan from the back of her throat.

"I love you, you know," she says.

"I do," he whispers, and he rolls her onto her back; she wraps herself around him, pulling him in as close as possible, both of them cherishing each and every sensation.

Charles is moving as slowly as he can, savoring the feel of his wife's skin against his own. And when she looks into his eyes, she sees nothing but her love returned tenfold.

 **oOoOoOo**

 _ **Christmas Day**_

Beryl reaches for her wine glass as she listens to her dearest friends' chatter at the other end of the table. A glance at the guests seated around her makes her smile; full bellies and soft conversation, the blessings of a holiday meal.

"I don't know how you found the time, but this was amazing, Elsie."

Beryl raises the glass in a toast, the sound of echoed praises from Anna, John, and Daisy mixing with the faint music from the gramophone in the parlor. The windows are steamed from the heat from the fireplace, and the lights on the tree shine steadily. Elsie smiles when Anna lays a hand over her belly, both of them hoping that the new babe will be a girl.

The knock on the door almost isn't heard, but Anna's keen ear picks up on it. It's Elsie who rises to answer it, laying a hand on her husband's shoulder as she passes behind his chair. She squeezes slightly, and Beryl sees the contented smile on his face. She's used to it now, the familiarity between the Carsons when they're in the comfort of their own home, but it took a while for her to come to terms with the idea that Charles was, indeed, the same man she'd worked alongside for decades.

Elsie peers through the small window by the door but she can't make out who it is. Half-expecting Lady Mary, Tom Branson, and the children, she's slightly taken aback by the faces that greet her as she pulls the door open. Lady Mary _has_ come, she notices, but she's not accompanied by her brother-in-law.

"Lady Hexham!" Elsie gasps. "Oh, how lovely to see you!"

"Don't you dare," Edith replies with a smile. "Please, _please_ don't 'Lady Hexham' me, Mrs. Carson, and don't curtsey or do any other foolish thing like that. It's Lady Edith, still - or, better yet, even _Edith_ would do."

"You married the title," Mary says from where she stands beside her sister. "The least you could do would be to enjoy it."

"Do come in," Elsie manages to squeeze in, holding the door wide open for the younger women. "And Happy Christmas!"

Edith takes Elsie's hand and places a kiss to her cheek. "And to you. I'm sorry we've barged in here, and we promise not to stay long. I just … "

"Lady Mary!"

Charles's voice interrupts their conversation, but it doesn't seem to matter. Everyone has now stood up at the table upon seeing the newly-arrived guests, and although she'd never begrudge any of them their dedication to the rules of society, Elsie is a bit perturbed at how the comfortable, family feeling of their holiday has suddenly become secondary to everyone's sense of propriety. But Charles places a hand to her shoulder, calming her.

"You've not brought the children, then?" Elsie asks after a pause.

"No. We just wanted to stop by and bring greetings from the family," Edith says. But her reply is evasive, and Elsie sees right through her.

"Is everything all right, Milady?" she asks quietly.

Charles, still the butler in so many ways, cottons on. "Lady Mary, would you like to see the tree?" he asks. "Not as grand as the one in the great hall, mind you."

"I'd love to, Carson, thank you," Mary replies, leaving Edith and Elsie behind.

"I'm sorry," Edith says quietly. "I meant to come alone, but I couldn't shake her. She said Mr. Carson had invited her to stop by. And I think she misses him more than she lets on."

"Oh, I know she does," Elsie agrees. "And the feeling is, indeed, mutual. Now, you're looking quite well! Have you and Lord Hexham had a Happy Christmas?"

"I cannot wait until it's over," Edith admits without hesitation. "It was such a breath of fresh air to be at Downton, with Mama and Papa and Tom and even _Mary,_ rather than at balls and events and having to entertain Dukes and Duchesses the whole season long."

"Let's get you a cuppa," Elsie decides, and she and Edith find their way to the kitchen.

"I'd love one," she says, and as they approach the stove, Edith spots the flowers in the vase. "Oh, good. You _did_ take the flowers! I had hoped it was you."

Elsie's eyes widen. "You mean _you_ left them, Milady?"

Edith nods as Elsie pours the tea. "Yes. And I meant to ask first, but hoped you wouldn't mind. They're still looking quite bright, too!" She pauses and takes the teacup and saucer from Elsie's hand. "I wanted to … well, to offer you a bit of brightness, I suppose."

Just then, Mary joins the women in the kitchen, Charles not far behind. Elsie can hear their guests moving into the living room, and it occurs to her that they all seem to be doing some kind of elaborate dance around the cottage, from table to fire and room to room, trying to give her and Edith a chance to speak.

"There they are," Mary says. "See, Edith? I told you Mrs. Carson must have been the one to have taken them. There was no need to worry."

Charles smiles, everything falling into place. "It was a lovely gesture from you both, and it was very appreciated."

"A spot of beauty amidst what we know can be a … well, a difficult time," Mary says quietly, suddenly finding her wedding band _very_ interesting, her voice catching slightly.

"You know, Becky and I rarely spent Christmas together," Elsie says slowly, reaching to finger the edge of one of the flower petals. "But this year, knowing she's not enjoying it in her home … Well, it's … difficult, as you say."

"It does get a bit easier," Edith says. "And any loss would be painful. But to lose a sister, one whose inner spirit is nothing but goodness and light ..."

Elsie notices from the corner of her eye as Mary wipes away a tear with a handkerchief, but she turns and focuses her attentions on Edith. She knows it was Edith who'd chosen the flowers, knows it's Edith who was closer in many ways to Sybil, and she reaches once more for her hand, clasping it tightly.

"Angels, the both of them," she says, her voice wavering, and Edith nods. "Thank you. Thank you so much, my dears."

Edith squeezes back, nodding. Neither woman sees as Charles catches Mary's eye and nods, an acknowledgement to what lies in _her_ heart as well.

"There are biscuits," he says to her quietly.

Mary looks at him, then bursts into laughter.

"It's your house, Carson," she says, the sadness in her eyes overtaken by a bit of mischievous glee. "So I'm sure there are!"

"They're for the _children,"_ Elsie clarifies with a smile. "And I've nearly had to lock the boxes up to keep him from getting at their portion."

And, just like that, the atmosphere in the kitchen changes. One Marchioness, one Earl's daughter, and their former butler and housekeeper … yet none of them feeling those titles that Christmas night. Instead, as if by some kind of holiday magic, they are something akin to friends.

"Stay," Elsie says suddenly. "The others are in the parlour setting up for the charades. Please join us if you like."

"No, we really can't," Mary tells her. "The children are waiting for us to get back and tuck them in. But thank you for that. Perhaps another time?"

"You're always welcome here," Charles tells them.

"Thank you," Edith says. "That means a lot."

Elsie catches her husband's glance, and smiles, sending him a little wink as a flicker of memory passes through their minds.

"Indeed," she murmurs.

 **oOoOoOo**

By the time Elsie and Charles finish cleaning up after dinner, they are completely exhausted. She plops onto the settee and watches as he pours them each a finger of whisky, a detour from their usual ritual but a nod to the successful visit from the family - the bottle from which he's serving it was a gift from Lord Grantham at Charles's last birthday.

"Thank you." She takes the glass from him and notices the shaking. "Worse after all the lifting of dishes and the excitement of the day, I imagine."

"Yes, but better than it used to be before I retired," he admits sheepishly. "I was a fool to think I could hang on forever."

Elsie scoots a bit closer to him once he sits, and she pats his knee. "Yes, but then we'd have missed out on all this."

He smiles as she clinks her glass against his. "True. And I wouldn't trade 'all this' for anything."

They're quiet for a bit, content to sit and enjoy the stillness of the cottage, the crackle of the fire. After a bit, Elsie's eyes land on the mantle and a soft smile touches her lips as she spies the photographs.

"It's been quite a year," Charles says, reading her mind.

"I know." She drains her glass and sets it on the side table. "I never thought half the things that happened this year would come to pass. I never thought … hm. You know you're going to lose people, don't you? Yet when the day comes, it's as though you're not prepared whatsoever."

"That's a very accurate observation," he replies. "But time moves on, as you have reminded me so often over the years. And we move with it whether we want to or not."

"The young ladies stayed quite a while. That was unexpected."

Charles smirks at her. "It was unexpectedly _pleasant,_ you mean. Even you have to admit you enjoyed the company of both of them."

"Well," she hedges, fiddling with the crease of his trousers underneath his knee, "it is Christmas, after all."

"That it is," he laughs, leaning over and placing a tender kiss to her temple. "I will admit, it was a surprise to hear their voices in our cottage."

"It was sweet of them, though," she replies, nibbling on her lip a bit. "To check up on me. I'm not used to that."

" _I_ check up on you."

" _You're_ supposed to," Elsie says. "No, I mean … with Becky. They knew it would be difficult at Christmastime, and they took time out of their days to address that. The flowers at the grave, the visit today. We've all lost a sister now, and while it's something in common, I suppose I didn't expect …" Her voice dies away, unsure as she is about continuing the thought.

"You didn't expect they'd find it important because it's you," he says bluntly. "Or, at least, that Lady Mary wouldn't."

Elsie turns to look at him. "It's that I spent so long keeping Becky a secret, Charlie. And then that was blown wide open when I married you, and I was fine with that. She loved you and you, her. Other people found out about her, and no one was judgmental or harsh. But the family … well. I didn't really discuss it with them, you know."

"I did," he admits in a whisper. "Well, once."

Her eyebrows fly up. "Pardon me?"

"Lady Hexham - Lady _Edith,_ " he corrects himself, and the impropriety of the old title makes him cringe slightly, "asked me once. It was after we'd gone to visit Becky the first time, at the home, and she wanted to know if we had a nice time."

"That was kind of her."

"It was." He takes Elsie's hand in his. "She holds you in very high regard, you know."

"Well, I hold her in high regard as well. But still, Charlie. It was strange having them here, as if … as if we were almost friends."

"I think that's what Lady Edith would like, actually," he replies thoughtfully. "A true friendship, with someone who isn't part of her new, high-society lifestyle."

"She doesn't like it much," Elsie says. "That lifestyle. And I'm not sure she wants a friendship, exactly. Not in the way you mean it. I'm not even sure that's possible."

"Well, in the future, who knows?"

She draws his hand into her lap, the shaking having worsened over the last few minutes, and presses her palm up and down his hand and forearm in an attempt to massage it away.

"Who'd ever have thought that it would be _you_ telling _me_ that the class divide is lessening, and that it's not a disaster at that."

He leans in for a kiss, and his lips linger as his hand comes up to cradle her head. They stay there on the sofa for a while, kissing softly and cuddling up underneath the blanket as the fire weakens. When it's down to its last embers, Charles shifts in order to give Elsie a little squeeze.

"Happy Christmas, love," he whispers. "Shall we go up?"

"Happy Christmas, Charlie." She smiles. "I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

 **A/N: With endless gratitude to you all this holiday season. Many thanks to you for your tremendous support. As the New Year approaches, I have my WWI AU to work on and a couple of smaller things to take care of. But, as Elsie says, "Who knows what the future may hold?"**

 **Special shout-out to the guest reviewer who filled my Inbox these past two weeks. I've no idea who you are, but the fact that you're making your way through all the "older stuff" made me happy. Please drop me a PM sometime so that I may thank you properly.**

 **xxx,**

 **CSotA**


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